


Hold on When You Get Love (and Let Go When You Give It)

by jmcats



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Construction Liam, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Uni AU, Uni Zayn, Ziam Fluff, ziam, ziam smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:11:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 59,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmcats/pseuds/jmcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This city, where Zayn's lived all of his life, has always felt like <i>home</i>. He has two goals: finish up his Lit degree at University and avoid distractions.  It's unfortunate, and probably referenced in a dozen words he's read by Whitman, Keats, and Twain, that this city's never seen something quite like Liam. He's just a boy with a dopey smile, soft eyes, and he's the most absolute definition of the word <i>distraction</i> Zayn's ever met.</p><p>Or where Zayn's studying Lit at Uni and Liam is a construction worker who catches Zayn's eye every day he passes by</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold on When You Get Love (and Let Go When You Give It)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a single prompt: _really really need a fic where Liam is a construction worker and Zayn passes him every single day as he goes to his uni where he is studying to be a lit major and they fall in love_ from [Tumblr](http://i-think-i-want-to-larry-lou.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I dedicate this fully to [Lea](http://wafflehood.tumblr.com), my Elizabeth Swan to this brooding Will Turner. She is magnificent and truly helped me to make it through every facet of this fic. Love you Lea! Also, a huge thanks to [obsessing-over](http://obsessing-over.tumblr.com) for finding this prompt for me: you are love.
> 
> WARNING: There's quite a bit of smut in this one and a bunch of Literary giants that I respect fully. In fact, this is one big send-up to Literature, my fav course in school.

Zayn loves this city.

The sky kicks up dusty clouds of white just in front of the sun most days, coating the city’s streets and its tall, tall buildings in that kind of glow you can only see through sharp shards of shattered glass.  There’s a nice haze to the roads in the mornings, a quiet heat that peaks highest in the afternoon and he loves the soft way the stars flicker like dim points of origin in the dark.  Nothing about this place has changed since he was a stropping five year old, hand clasped in his mum’s while walking down Brown Avenue toward his first day of school.

The cracks in the sidewalk on Peppers Street have only gotten wider, broader over the years.  The abandoned building off the edge of Baker’s Mills, with the _‘Caution’_ sign still hanging off a rusted chain and ribbons of yellow tape crisscrossing, still rises tall from the ground – he remembers ditching off in the building when he was fifteen with Ant and Danny, finishing off a pack of Marlboro’s and bottles of Old Speckled Hen that Danny nicked off their dad’s massive collection.  He knows that the bakery ten minutes from his childhood home has all the best biscuits early in the morning – not that he ever got up early enough to know better – and Walsh’s Tavern, deep in the heart of the city, is always the best place for a game of pool, a good smoke, and a few pints with your mates.  It’s always coldest just at the end of November and the sun plays the loveliest game of hide-and-go-seek in the middle of March just before it’s warmest.

He knows most of the shops down in midst of the city traffic just beyond Kingston’s are the best places to find some wicked secondhand clothing while Jupiter, that little coffee shop just outside of University that’s been owned by the same man since he was seven – Mr. Wagner is an eccentric old man who comes off intimidating but there’s something uncontrollably kind and wise behind those wide eyes – serves the best cup of Colombian coffee Zayn’s ever had on the tip of his tongue.  The schools are the same – he still runs into his old English teacher, Mrs. Byrne, from time to time – and nothing ever really changes about this place except the passing people.  The collection of Uni kids who flounder in the city, never truly establishing a permanence but just enough of a home that they look fondly on all the worn street signs, the sparse places to socialize, the little shops like Anne’s Flowers and Smith’s Jukebox like this place is the proper footnote in their journey to something greater.

There’s something about the broken rocks of the sidewalks down on Rivers Street, the ones that crunch beneath his boots mid-September under a perfectly swelled up sun.  The sky is a painted on blue, the kind you find in a box of crayons just before you pluck out the violet one.  The air is thin, the fog lifted from a stream of showers that’s bathed the streets for far too many days now.  He breathes in freeing strips of smoke, everything curling light and warm around his lungs.  He flicks at the ash from his fag, the toe of his shoe kicking at those small pebbles until they’re rolling ahead of him down the road.  Another long puff, his smile curling around the filter like this is why he loves this city.

In moments like this, it’s _his_ city.

There’s the buzz of the taxis as they pick up office workers, those suit-and-tie types that he hopes to never become hopping in and out.  He looks at their shiny shoes, their confining waistcoats and jackets that mold the sharp shape of their shoulders.  His fingers curl around the strap of his shoulderbag – it’s a nice, leather one his mum spent weeks saving up for because “I can’t afford you all those fancy textbooks sunshine, but the least I can do is offer you something to tote them all around in.” – and he smiles with an exhale of blue smoke at the smile on her face the first time he tried it on, clutching at the strap with the kind of smirk that tugged at the corners of his mouth and left him a bit dazed.

He tastes spots of the sun along his chapped lips, bright glimmers tucked behind the all too tall buildings catching his eyes every other step.  He bobs his head to something vaguely familiar – he’s drowned himself in hours of Drake and Kanye lately but nothing really sticks for too long – while pulling at his denim jacket.  He catches the arc of a breeze in the rips in his jeans, thumb stroking his bottom lip while the world plays out noises that sound like static to him.  He takes another stiff drag of smoke, missing that cup of coffee he skipped this morning to make it to class on time and, really, why in all fuck did he think studying Lit was a brilliant idea?  He’s been burnt out on Shakespeare, the importance of Modern Romanticism and the varied key points in each one of Tennyson’s most important works for weeks now.  Not that he didn’t love the week-long lecture series on Homer at the beginning of term or the way one of his classmates’, the mockingly buoyant Jesy with her fiery-red hair and too large eyes, constant need to disprove Poe’s brilliance.

“Oi, you should’ve seen ‘er.  Right fit young bird, I swear.  She was shitfaced off ale and her top, I must say gents, did little to ‘ide ‘er enormous tits.”

Zayn takes a quiet puff, sniffing at the warm air that clings to the afternoon.  He eyes the piles of dirt, heaps of metal, the construction site that’s roped off by chains and a large encompassing wire fence that stretches for at least a block.  His teeth catch on his bottom lip while eyeing the wayward sign hanging from the fence – _Future Home of St. Christopher’s Orphanage_.  His nimble fingers feather through his loose quiff, eye narrowing on a young lad who’s all fluffy blonde hair beneath a crooked bright yellow hardhat with eyes bluer than the skies above.  He’s got a lopsided smile, one of those neon reflective vests that catches every glint of the haloing sun and spots of dirt smeared across his white tank top beneath.  He looks incredibly young, far too young for this line of work but, then again, who was Zayn to know such things?  He’s not exactly toned like the other workers passing him with hearty laughs and tipped up smiles but there’s hints of definition to his arms, maybe beneath his loose fitting jeans.  He’s all wild hand gestures to a few of the other guys and his skin is a washed out hue, shoulders sunburned and red.

“Tell us more Nialler,” one calls out from the scaffolding above, carrying slabs of iron across the beams.

“Did you take her home?”

“Come on now lads.  Niall has never been that lucky,” another laughs out, rubbing at his protruding belly and Zayn tries not to sneer at the way he’s all scruffy and out of shape beneath all the flannel and wrinkled t-shirt.

“Oi, says who O’ Donohue?  I shag weekly,” Niall declares, arms folded over his chest with a defiant lift to his chin.

Zayn catches the way some of the other works laugh loudly, condescending pats to the younger boy’s shoulders like they don’t believe a word he’s uttering.

“Finish telling us about the bird, Nialler, c’mon,” a sturdy man pleads while pushing a wheelbarrow full of mulch across the dusty dirt of the site.

Zayn chews off a smile, steps slowing as he watches something bright – _luminous_ , he thinks – slide across Niall’s face.  He’s summer and ocean waves, uncontained energy that’s filtered through belly-aching laughs and a lifted brow.  He does a little shuffle, adjusting his poorly fit gloves on his hands before he’s giving a little lift to his shoulders.

“She was right willing to go home wit’ me, let me tell ya,” Niall boasts, the throb of his voice a little too obvious.  He’s lying but Zayn admires how all of the other workers refuse to call him on his shit, nodding along like they’ve heard this story thousands of times before.

“Oi, and she wasn’t wearing any knickers,” Niall adds, rocking on his heels.

“Did you get a feel?”

“Did I,” Niall sings out and there’s wolf-whistles, cheering, a round of applause that feels completely overdone but there’s a wicked shade of red smudging its way across Niall’s cheeks, a quiet dullness compared to the way the sun is leaving his skin bright scarlet.

Zayn kicks at a few more rocks, a couple of quick pulls of his cigarette leaving it nearly burnt out.  He flicks it away, already pulling out another one and lighting it before the cherry fully dies out.  He takes a few meditative puffs – Danny taught him long ago that the first few pulls of a fag are never quite as enjoyable as the ones in the middle when you’re debating on how long you’ve got until it’s all gone – while dragging his index and middle fingers along the fence, letting them catch on the metal every few careless steps.

“You’re full of shit Horan,” another guy, a little taller with stringy blonde-brown hair, incredibly wide shoulders and the kind of build that would be intimidating to anyone who didn’t grow up in the same neighborhood Zayn was raised in.  He’s a showpiece, really, because he’s clumsy while swinging a sledgehammer and it’s all cockiness in the way he grins, lifts his shoulders to seem imposing.

 _Fucking prick_ , Zayn thinks while his thumb drags along the thick stubble lining his jaw.

“Oi, what would ye know Andy?  You’ve got your head so far up Cher’s arse – “

“Watch it Horan,” Andy chides back, pointing a hammer in Niall’s direction but Niall refuses to flinch.

Zayn snorts, shaking his head.  Andy glares at Niall and it seems to end like that, Andy turning away to grumble something while Niall continues on like nothing ever happened.

“Was she beautiful?” O’ Donohue asks, all pleasant smiles and he looks like something out of _a Midsummer’s Night’s Dream_ or something tragically mythical with his gritty grin and sloppy attire.

“ _Exquisite_ ,” Niall says back and he’s sounds far from pretentious.  In fact, Zayn thinks he sounds amazed at his own ability to use the word correctly.  It draws up another snicker from Zayn, the sound hidden behind a bitten smile and a long exhale of smoke.

“You have shite taste Horan, what would you know?” Andy challenges, his voice a little mocking but he keeps his distance, hammering away at something that looks like a poorly put together birdhouse.

“Yes, well, I fucked your mum so go figure,” Niall says a bit carelessly, a small lift of his shoulders as he glances at Andy.  Andy glares at Niall once more but nothing comes of it and, honestly, Zayn thinks Andy’s one of those types that spends years in the gym to compensate for the inability to think above the reading level of a Seventh Year student.

His teeth slide over his bottom lip when he catches another young boy moving toward Niall with a round smile that pushes at his neatly carved cheeks.

He’s got soft brown eyes – almost honey, the right hint of almond when the sun’s not in focus – and thick eyebrows that make his eyes even more engaging.  He’s _fit_ , muscles straining and outlined in the glimmer of the light.  There’s scraps of ink over his forearms – Zayn notices the feather first, then the four thick arrows dragging down his right arm – and everything coils and stretches beneath his skin as he tightens his one-armed hold on the bag of cement slung over one of his shoulders.  His black tank top stretches tightly over his taut chest, a flannel shirt tied loosely around his waist.  His jeans hang off his hips, bits of his shirt riding up to expose black briefs.  His boots scuff along the dirt and Zayn traces over his face once more – he’s got almost golden stubble along his jaw and chin, sweat shining slickly against his brow and, instead of a hardhat, he’s got a snapback pushing down on his sandy brown hair like he’s trying to be too cool for any of this.

Zayn bites on the tip of his tongue, holding in a long inhale of smoke until it lines his lungs and leaves him a little lightheaded – though he’s not completely sure that’s not from looking at this boy who, fuck, he’s _incredible_.  He’s absolutely beautiful beneath the flicker of the sun that seems to catch him at all of the right angles – the width of his shoulders, the expanse of his back that’s slick with sweat, the shadows showing how slim his hips are compared to his upper body, the curve of his ass when he droops a little to adjust the weight of the cement bag.

“Fuck,” Zayn breathes, the word dragging on his tongue.  He wants that skin – its tan, nearly gold, probably from days upon days beneath the summer sun – across his tongue.  He wants those fingers, the ones bunched around that bag, digging into his own skin.  He wants those white teeth that peek out from this kid’s smile to press indentations into Zayn’s skin until all he knows is marks and bruises and nirvana.

“You’re mental Nialler,” the boy says, his tone sheepish and deep.  “And she was sort of dodgy.”

“Liam Payne, you’re playing favorites,” Niall argues with a little huff, kicking loose dirt at the other boy’s already dusty boots.

There’s a tickling laugh escaping the other boy – _Liam_ , Zayn thinks with a smirk – and his eyes crinkle just around the edges.  His lips, all ruddy and plump, spread into the kind of smile that pushes his cheeks a little higher.

“He’s been my best mate since we were three,” Andy states a little too proudly like he’s finally one-upped Niall.

“Yeah, well,” Niall sighs, taking a quick sip from a bottle of water.  “Nobody asked ye, did we?”

Andy chews out a response that dies off in a sharp breeze of wind, Zayn pulling at his jacket before taking another long drag of that sweet smoke.

“I don’t play favorites,” Liam says with a grin, using the back of his wrist to wipe away sweat from his brow.  He’s almost poetry in motion, the way he slides an arm around Niall’s slumped shoulders while still looking incredibly optimistic and his laughter is contagious, everything good and pleasant orbiting around him.

Zayn shakes his head, dragging his fingers through his already ruffled quiff before he kicks at a few more rocks, the stones rattling down the road before he’s slowly following them with his cigarette dangling from his lips and his hands adjusting the strap of his bag.

“I’m just saying Nialler,” Liam grins out, playfully shoving at the other boy.  “She wasn’t exactly ace, that’s all mate.”

Niall huffs out a laugh, pulling off his hardhat for a moment to drag slender fingers through his flattened blonde hair.  “She wasn’t your type, eh?”

“No,” Liam says flatly, rubbing at his own shoulder, rotating it until all of the muscles flex and shiver beneath his tan skin.

Zayn’s tongue flicks over his lips and, fuck, he needs to be thinking about nineteenth century realism and Flaubert and _Madame Bovary_ , not the complexity of this boy’s – _Liam_ , he reminds himself with a hint of smile that sticks like jam on his lips – chocolate eyes or his grin or the way his cheeks look impossibly soft beneath those hints of scruff that take away the almost boyish quality of his face.

“We all know Payne’s _type_ ,” O’ Donohue jests and Zayn pretends not to notice the way eyes flock to Liam, leaving his cheeks a shade pinker than they were seconds before.

“We support you Payne,” another says from high above, a fist lifted in the air like some brotherly sign of solidarity.  Zayn’s certain he’s never gotten the bravado of macho-ism but he commends the way some customs have never changed much.

“Yeah Payno,” Niall says behind a grin, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully while Liam drags the toe of his boot in the dirt, looking up through soft lashes and a lowered brow.  “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“’m _not_ ,” Liam argues but his voice is soft, only halfway convincing.

“Good,” Niall cheers and even Andy’s smiling when Niall slides an arm around Liam’s wider shoulders, pulling him in close.  They’re just speckled stars under the sun now as he glances over his shoulder, cigarette lifted to his lips with dull nails scratching at the back of his head.

Liam’s cupping the back of his neck, a reticence burning brighter than the lifted rays of the hypnotic sun.  Zayn thinks, with a hard swallow, brown eyes meet his and he’s breathless from the smoke.  He’s not fucking looking back at Liam with a fondness, a curiosity, a desperate need like self-deprivation riddled with insecurity.

Zayn doesn’t get hung up over any boy.  Not since that tiny crush he had on Ant in Sixth Year and he was a fucking idiot then because Ant was hardly worth a good wank over.

He doesn’t even bother.

But Liam might be looking at him, something a bit wistful in his gaze – he’s too far up the road now and everything that’s being said at that broken down construction site sounds like white noise – yet Zayn thinks he can hear Niall when he clears his throat, a sharp whistle breaking through the hissing downdraft scraping the streets.

“More your type, eh Payner?  Quite fetching that one is,” Niall teases and there’s more playful shoving, rowdy laughter and, even beneath the blink of starry sunlight, Zayn thinks he can still pick out the varied hues of pink in Liam’s cheeks and the way he’s an adolescent admiring an untouchable piece of candy.

He snorts to himself, head shaking as he puffs on his fag.  He tilts his head back, letting the sun cascade down and, honestly, he doesn’t give it another thought.

Except, halfway back to his flat, he imagines the heat of those cheeks beneath his lips and wonders if Liam’s just that shy with a hand circling his cock and Zayn’s cigarette smoke on his tongue.

**

Zayn’s more than thrilled to be done with his fresher year of on-campus living where the quarters are far too small for not just one, but _two_ residents to squander into – he remembers reading Shakespeare, taking notes on Dickinson, and completely hating his roommate Max because he always nicked Zayn’s last few cigs, was complete rubbish at keeping his small part of the room clean, and liked to keep the company of silly secondary school girls far past their bedtime during the week.  Not to mention his unholy love for Axe bodyspray and black coffee at three in the afternoon.

His family has never been well-off – his mum’s spent most of his life working in school cafeterias while his baba works a desk job selling real estate to high-priced buyers – but they’ve got just enough to help him take up residence at one of the many industrial flats just off the campus where the walls are a washed out white, the floors are hardwood, and _anything goes_ as long as the rent is paid timely.  It makes the modern kitchen, the laundry room in the basement of the building, and the high ceilings more than worth the few quid he brings in from shilling off old comics to a nearby bookstore and selling his artwork – he keeps all of his favorite pieces but the ones that are considered _contemporary_ , if not a bit modernist – to a local gallery owned by a nice man by the last name of Cowell.  Not that Zayn’s ever really met the guy – he does all of his buying and bargaining through a sweet, lavender-haired girl named Lou – but he offers more than enough quid for Zayn to pay his share of the rent and still afford a decent cup of coffee at least three times during the week.

Their furniture is sparse – Harry once called it _‘minimalist,’_ but Zayn’s almost certain Harry knows nothing about such things – but they make up for it with cheap bean bag chairs, a ratty lime green couch that turns into a pullout his mum offered him the day they moved in, a few things their parents managed to get them from Harrods, and quite a few recliners that litter the living area.  There’s a throw rug, Zayn’s old telly from back home – which isn’t really that far from campus but Zayn prefers the beaten path of _‘adult adventurism’_ instead – and an old coffee table from Harry’s that’s stained with coffee, the black paint chipping at the corners, and a few nicked coasters from a nearby pub keep the legs centered and leveled.

It’s four bedrooms, even though it’s just him, Harry, and Louis but they’ve never really bothered searching for a fourth flatmate.  Harry thinks it’s because they’ve bonded since that first day of orientation when Harry was all curls and bright green eyes while Louis was rolled up chinos, barely worn Tom’s, and stripped shirts beneath a bright pair of braces.  Zayn thinks it’s because, honestly, they don’t trust anyone else into this unholy alliance they made over coffees, Hemmingway, and their little chaotic world of stupid jokes, an adoration for romantic comedies, and a need to be anything other than the typical Uni kid.

The fourth room is instead given to Zayn – well, he bargained for it; forfeiting first dibs on the shower every morning and a weekly rendering of Louis’ latest audition in his grand scheme to become a known thespian – to store all of his art and increasingly growing collection of used books.  Mainly, the room is used for his little piece of solace amongst the Literature, stagnant world outside, and that tiny grain of escapism he finds in decorating the walls in graffiti and cheap paint.  Louis only complains about it when the fumes get too strong and Harry says nothing, just smirking and burying himself in another newspaper to _‘seize the day, my Captain’_ – Honestly, Zayn thinks Harry mistook _Dead Poet’s Society_ for a mantra on how to be humorous, Robin Williams be damned.

The front door is a heavy block of wood that Zayn has to shove through most days because the lock sticks, the stupid thing is off center, and maybe Zayn should take Harry’s advice about hitting the gym every once in a while.  Then again, Harry is not the most brilliant when it comes to advice – a hard lesson to learn that first year when Harry tried to give Zayn dating tips, offering up his sister Gemma only for Zayn to ask, “Maybe you have a _brother_ I could shag instead?”

“I’m thinking of auditioning for the role of Enjolras this year,” Louis says from the couch, waving a hand in the air the moment Zayn pushes through the door.

“Who is that?” Harry asks, perched in one of the recliners with fingers pushing back his curls and his legs crossed, a thick book opened in his lap.

Louis sighs dramatically and Zayn doesn’t have to watch him to know his eyes are rolling and there’s a rumpled smirk on his lips.

“From _Les Miserables_ ,” Louis says a bit insistently, folding his arms across his chest.  “C’mon Hazza, keep up.”

Louis’ lying across the uneven cushions of the couch, feet propped up on one of the arms.  He’s abandoned posh checkered shirts and tight jeans for joggers, still rolled up mid-calf, a loose fitting band shirt – the Killers, of course – but his hair is slicked back and there’s a neat shadowing of stubble across his mouth that gives him the age but not the maturity.

“Brilliant film,” Harry chimes, wide red lips spreading into the kind of smile you could never hate.  He sounds fascinated, not the least bit condescending like Zayn knows Louis would be.  They’re complete opposites yet they fit so perfectly it almost scares Zayn.

Harry’s lighthearted, intense when it’s something he loves, with the right side of cheekiness and flirtation that makes you a bit helpless.  His voice is smoky, deeper when he first wakes up, and there’s an endless softness to his face.  Louis’ loud, incredibly so, with a brashness to everything he says.  He’s forward, shit at lying, and his voice stretches high and thin when he’s annoyed.  Where Harry is calculated and kind, Louis is lazy and rough.

Zayn can’t deny he loves them as much as he loves Ant and Danny, but with a little more honesty.

“Should you not be thinking about Mathematics and Global Studies?” Harry says with a fond smile and something like a taunt on the edge of his tongue.

Louis sighs again, all whiny and petulant.  “History is rubbish.”

“I beg to differ,” Harry contends, his lips quirking upward.

“Because you _study_ it.”

“Because I _live_ it,” Harry hums, fingering through a few pages of his book before gleaming at Zayn.

Zayn smiles back, reaching out to scrub his fingers through Harry’s soft curls before the other boy makes a face, drawing back to do this neat move that’s all _swipe-swipe-sweep_ before Harry’s curls are falling back into a tangled mess of brilliance.

“You bore me,” Louis mumbles, lips puckering like a five year old.

His eyes remind Zayn of sea glass, perfectly blue and painstakingly honest but they’re little windows into deeper parts of Louis that he rarely exposes to anyone other than Harry and Zayn.

Zayn nibbles on his bottom lip, dropping his bag by the couch but not before pulling out a worn copy of _the Hound of Baskervilles_ – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle isn’t on the reading list this term, but he _should_ be.  He finds a spot in the recliner adjacent to Harry’s, folding his legs under him and slipping on his glasses while Louis’ hums an annoyed sound.

“I _intrigue_ you Lou,” Harry says with a small wink, leaning forward to flick at Louis’ toes.

Louis lets out a silent yelp, his face wrinkling at Harry.  “You don’t know the definition.”

“I read it on Zayn’s little daily word calendar,” Harry argues kindly, still smirking at Louis.

Zayn’s certain neither one of them would ever win a battle of wits but it’s never stopped them from trying.

“You’re rubbish,” Louis puts out and there’s not a single hint of malice in his tone.

“You’re my Julia Roberts.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Harry only grins, folding over another page before highlighting some of the text.  He pulls a mossy green beanie over his curls – it’s a shade or two duller than those emerald eyes that shine like a newborn sun – before biting gently on the tip of his tongue.

Zayn’s never understood how Harry’s a wild mix of hipster and sleek.  He’s bowties and freshly pressed button downs with tight jeans, sharp blazers, and tailored boots.  Closer to the weekends, he’s Hendrix t-shirts, even _tighter_ jeans, and dangling necklaces that clink everywhere he steps.  He’s a kid at heart without shoes, a fondness for everything alternative and punk rock but still manages to impress even the most posh city people with his love for politics and liberalism.

“You would make a perfect Danny Zuko,” Harry tells him, eyes lit like a cluster of stars.

 _And you’d be his Sandra Dee_ , Zayn thinks, tucking a secret smile behind his teeth as he gazes down into his book rather than Louis’ questioning glare.  He knows they’re nothing like that – this game of cat and mouse is just that, _a game_ – but he can’t help but wonder.  Some days, it’s a little more flirtatious banter rather than brotherly love but Louis refuses to admit it and Harry’s quite satisfied courting any and every lonely Uni girl that passes him.

The sun steals through those wall-length windows just behind them, catching a warm glow over the room and Zayn bites down on his thumbnail as Louis clicks through his phone, catching random selfies while Harry snorts, drawing out haphazard shapes with his highlighter across the text.

“The Spanish-American War will never be that interesting,” Louis notes after a beat.

Harry peeks up through fallen curls, a large hand reaching up to push sections of his hair back.  There’s a loose smile on his lips – _typical Harry Styles_ – before he’s clucking his teeth at Louis.

“Nor will your obsession with Keira Knightley films.”

“She was ace in _Pride and Prejudice_ ,” Louis counters, lips curling into a sneer.  “And you loved her in _Love Actually_ you twat.”

Harry nods solemnly, lowering his eyes again.  “I did.”

“ _Pirates_ ,” Zayn adds with a bitten-off grin, fingers rubbing at the thicker bits of scruff running his jaw.

Harry releases a steady hum before Louis’ groaning, “Hush you.  You loved _Ghostbusters_.”

“As did you,” Zayn reminds him, his smile sliding sideways.

Louis shrugs, toes wiggling idly.  “Only for Bill Murray.”

 _Of course_ , Zayn thinks, chuckling lowly.

It’s always like this – brothers-in-arms, going willingly through the paces.  He doesn’t know how he’s survived so many years before Harry and Louis.

“Shouldn’t you be focused on your Film Studies class?” Harry offers, long fingers tickling idly over Louis’ toes while he thumbs through another few pages, humming beneath a breath – _We’re gonna separate ourselves tonight. We’re always running scared but holding knives._

“Boring,” Louis sighs out, eyes focused on spots on the ceiling rather than the glow behind forest green.

“You’re hopeless.”

“You’re an arse.”

“If you’d simply put a little more effort into studying, Lou – “

“Like _you_?” Louis questions, a teasing smile rolling over his lips with a lifted brow.

Harry nods quickly, tilting his head curiously.  “You’re like the subtle complexities of the leaders of a fallen Rome.”

“And you’re a douchebag,” Louis laughs out, kicking lazily at Harry.  He misses wildly but Zayn gives him credit for the effort.

“All I’m saying Lou is – “

“ – a massive douche.”

“ – put a little effort into learning your craft and paying attention during one of your many self-imposed theatre courses to learn the subtle nuances – “

“Utter definition of the word.  Sod off, Zaynie, look up douchebag and see if Harry’s picture is available, yeah?”

“Bullocks,” Harry snorts, shaking his head and those curls shift with each movement, that sole dimple in his cheek flaring.  “You’re just lazy.”

“I’m a _thespian_ , Haz,” Louis declares shortly and Zayn supposes that means something.

“You’re a wannabe who does one act plays down at the local coffee shop with a collection of complete morons every other Friday night for the sake of attention,” Zayn notes, eyes lifted over the black rim of his glasses.  There’s a tugging smile moving his lips crooked across his face when Louis flips him off.

“We’re a troop,” Louis argues, a hiss to his voice that bounces off the humdrum acoustics of the flat.

Harry barks out a laugh, cheeks fizzled pink with something sincere rimming those bright green eyes.  “Is that what we’re calling it now a days?”

“Are you quite finished?” Louis hisses, a full-on scowl wrinkling his face this time.

Harry shrugs carelessly, fumbling out a “Quite, thank you,” before the tune across his lips is changing.  It’s something like the Naked and the Famous with its – _The bittersweet between my teeth. Trying to find the in-between. Fall back in love eventually._

Zayn doesn’t hide his smile behind his hand like Harry does when Louis pushes up on his elbows, glaring at them and its unsettled chuckles from there like every piece of their madness weaves itself into the bits of reality they exist in.  He grins when Louis begs Harry for a pot of tea, slouches into his chair while Harry groans like he’s at all bothered before sliding to his feet to stumble toward the kitchen for biscuits and Louis’ favorite lemon herbal cuppa.  His fingers leaf through a few already read pages, finding his place somewhere in the middle but the words don’t quite settle in.

He thinks maybe he’s too caught up watching the way Harry folds his fingers into Louis’ product-stiff hair when he passes him a cup of something steamy or the way Louis grumbles when Harry forces him to budge up on the couch so Harry can slide down next to him, automatically flipping on a rerun of _Skins_.  They tangle together, all limbs and fingers fisted into loose clothing, bits of skin touching like this is how they work.  Maybe he’s a bit distracted by that section of Socrates he wanted to review again or that paper on Thoreau he needs to start – Kipling was much easier last term – but maybe his mind is a bit dazed on a sharp jaw, bits of scruff, soft and warm brown eyes.  Maybe, just maybe he thinks about the thickness of Liam’s accent – somewhere from the Midlands he guesses – or the way those muscles moved so solidly beneath that tan skin.

Maybe he hates himself because, _fuck_ , he doesn’t get hung up on boys.  Stupid boys with lazy smiles and lips he imagines leaving behind words he’ll never find in a fucking Sherlock Holmes novel.

**

There’s the sweet taste of cream on his lips, drops of already drunken coffee still burning against his tongue.  The curl of his tongue licks away dead smoke from the roof of his mouth and he loves the sweet smell of fresh pastry when he passes down those back roads just off Brown Street.  The pad of his thumb drags along his bottom lip, the sun passing through the spaces between the buildings.  His high-tops – he’s foregone boots today because he’s far too lazy for the laces and the clunkiness of them – scuff against the gravel, the loose bits of rocks he knows too well.

He could do this blindfolded, these roads so familiar and like _home_.  He’s flipping through a paperback copy of _Knightfall_ – he should be looking over Faulkner, maybe delving into the works of Whitman but he’s feeling a bit careless today – with a tinted smile on his lips and the air of a fresh city in his lungs.  He listens to the rustle of the leaves – painted orangey gold and forgotten strips of green – lets the sun drop small sparks of light across the windows from the too tall buildings above.  There’s children, far off, playing loudly in the midst of recess, the crowded sounds of the city flowing but he’s got one earbud in, taking in beats of Kings of Leon – Harry’s had fun recently adding all sorts of playlists to his iPod that he’ll forget about in days but, for now, he revels in the anarchy that is not all hip hop and subtle bluesy stuff – and hints of Arcade Fire.

The breeze is light, a nice dusting of _forever-long-gone_ that he likes against his back with the sleeves of his thin Henley bunched up around his elbows, the first few buttons undone.  He hums along, words soft and forgettable against his lips – _You know that I could use somebody. Someone like you_ – and he tries not to cringe, but he always does, at the image of Bane cracking Batman’s back across his knee.  There’s a catch in his voice when a football rolls by his feet, the sound a low grind and he only looks up momentarily from the pages that enthrall him as much as they did when he was fourteen, locked away in his room with nothing but dreams and poorly done sketches of Jason Todd.

“Nice one Horan!”

“’ve got it.”

Zayn does his best to catch the football with the arch of his foot – he’s always been shit at the game unlike his abbu or his dozens of cousins who watch Manchester United religiously on the weekends – nearly tripping over the spinning collection of navy stars spread large and wide against white.  He tries to balance it, a little trick he learned from Danny, before lifting hazel eyes to look through long eyelashes.

He thinks it’s a bit poetic – fucking Shakespeare and all of his glory – the way his heart hammers, lodges deep in his throat when he looks up at the boy – _Liam_ , smiling mentally – from yesterday.  He looks a bit more rugged in this hazy September sun with a checkered red and black shirt hanging loosely from his chest.  The buttons are undone halfway, sleeves bunched up on his forearms.  He reminds Zayn a bit of a Dr. Seuss character with the fuzziness of his eyebrows, the bits of gravely stubble, the slope of his nose, the cartoonish smile licking over those pinkish lips with eyes a soft brown texture – he wonders if he’s deep and complex like Dr. Seuss as well, with the layers big and bright between the lines.  The sun is kissing sharply over his tan skin, smudges of dirt and something black along his forearms, just across one of his cheeks like he accidentally wiped his hand there.

There’s a dim shyness orbiting Liam as Zayn chews on his bottom lip.  He slowly dribbles toward Liam and he’s barely noticed how close Liam is now – there’s spot of gold spun into almond in those eyes, like honey circling dark tea.  His lips look a little raw-bitten – fuck, when did his attention go _there_? – and there’s something quiet about his expression that draws Zayn in.  He smells like fresh air, a whisper of fading cologne, sweat, and everything manly.

Zayn bites down on the side of his mouth to stop his cock from aching in his boxers.

“Pretty good catch, mate,” Liam says, his head cocked to the side like he’s admiring Zayn.

Zayn feels his cheeks heat up before the blush actually settles in, shrugging like he doesn’t give a shit and, really, he _doesn’t_.  He doesn’t get hung up on boys, damn it.

“I’m shit at the game,” Zayn says with a small chuckle.  _And quite a few other things_ , he thinks but his tongue curls around the words before they can bubble past his lips.

Liam’s brow lifts like he’s intrigued, like anything about Zayn could seem remotely fascinating.  He’s a massive nerd who loves comic books, has an affinity for authors like Agatha Christie and Michael Crichton, paints the most imaginative things, and douses himself in every stretch of hip hop possible.

Fuck, _Zayn_ wouldn’t date Zayn if the option was presented.  Not that, well, Liam is actually considering dating Zayn and _what the fuck_.

He catches the way Liam’s lips upturn a little, spots of laughter in his already crinkling eyes.  He’s stringing thick fingers – ones that could bruise and punish and mark Zayn in the most amazing way – through his hair and Zayn likes the length, the way the sides are buzzed almost like a Mohawk.  He’s every little school girl’s crush, completely ordinary but incredibly attractive with those arms and thick accent and far from polished.

There’s a catch of laughter on Liam’s lips before he’s looking nervous, a bit put out as he scrubs his hands over his jeans.  He extends one toward Zayn, offering a quiet but confident, “I’m Liam by the way.  Liam Payne.”

The kid’s a joke with his sweet demeanor and lazy smile that just drags on Zayn’s mind.  He stares at that hand for a beat – it’s probably rough from hard labor and calloused and Zayn doesn’t imagine it tracing the curve of his bum in the dark – before he’s quickly taking it in his own.

“’m Zayn,” he says with a slight stutter, blood rushing his cheeks again.  And he’s wrong; fuck he’s so wrong because that hand is soft along the palm, fingers strong but willing.  His handshake is firm but openly friendly, the tips of his fingers running over Zayn’s knuckles like the shiver dancing up his spine.

There’s a glow to Liam’s smile – and Zayn thinks about Twain, _‘I can promise all my heart’s devotion. A smile to chase away your tears of sorrow’_ – and he waits until their palms are sweaty against one another before drawing back, Liam’s fingers leaving a sharp burn across his skin as they drag away.

Liam tilts his head a little, eyes growing large when he looks on the novel still gripped between Zayn’s other fingers and Zayn waits on him to balk, to completely turn away and leave him feeling quite daft and immature.

Something tugs at the corner of Liam’s lips, wide and childlike, before he’s nodding his head.  “Bane is mad, innit?”

Zayn bites down on his bottom lip to dull his smile and, fuck, he hates the way he ducks his head to nod back.

“The surreal-ness of the story and a broken hero, by definition, is intriguing enough,” Zayn says and he wants to take the words back because Liam’s eye go a little wider like he’s lost.

Liam chuckles, nervous and low, and Zayn waits until his lungs expand again before he lets his heart slide slowly back down his throat.

“I s’ppose,” Liam says, dragging the ball beneath the sole of his boots along the broken ground under them.  He’s rubbing at the nape of his neck, fingers digging in, and Zayn wants to settle his hand on top of Liam’s, feel his pulse.

“Do you,” Liam starts, his head jerking toward Zayn’s shoulderbag before a quiet rose shade kissing at his cheeks dims.  He clears his throat, shoulders straightening like he’s trying too hard.  It’s adorable, if not a bit daft.  “Do you attend the University?”

Zayn nods slowly, the toe of his trainer scratching along the road.  “Literature.”

Liam nods just as slow, his brow wrinkling like he’s trying to process it.  Zayn wants to kiss his lips swollen.

“Impressive.”

“Not hardly,” Zayn replies with a sharp laugh that dies just beneath a cloud of shared exhales.  He thumbs at his collarbone, trying to stand still but, fuck, how can he?  Liam’s looking at him like, well, he’s not quite sure.  Fascinated?  Oddly turned off?  Fucking confused and it’s all so overrated.

“Nice ink,” Liam notes, fingers reaching out and it’s like neon orange and electric shock through his nerves.  They brush – feathery, too light – over Zayn’s skin, across his forearm, his thumb sweeping the tendons of his arm.

The touch draws back just as quickly as it came, Liam scratching at the back of his head like he shouldn’t have.

Zayn thinks he _should_.  He should over and over until that touch is familiar.

But he’s not hung up.

“Thanks,” Zayn chews out, feels the eyes of more than one of the other workers on them.  He lifts an eyebrow, glancing over those wide shoulders where Andy’s eyeing them impatiently and Niall looks a little chuffed with pink cheeks, summer blue eyes, and that crooked smile.

“Do you have,” Liam swallows and this time he’s ducking his head, rubbing at his own temple, “ _more_?  I mean, there’s just so.  It’s wicked.”

Zayn snorts, grinning.  He nods, knocking the toe of his trainer against the ball beneath Liam’s foot.  “Loads.”

Liam giggles, kipping up the ball and he catches it so easily.  Fucking show-off.

“Shouldn’t you be,” Zayn hums, jerking his head towards the construction site, “I don’t know.  Like, shouldn’t you be working?”

Liam gasps, a little shocked, swirls of embarrassment that pinks his cheeks and Zayn thinks this kid’s incredibly silly.  Daft and fucking loveable if, you know, Zayn was into that sort of thing.

He’s _not_ , he promises.

“Right.  I should.  I _am_.  Just on a bit of a lunch, y’know?” Liam offers, his voice strained and thin.  He motions with a large sweep of an arm toward the gathering of workers in the heap of dirt, iron, and a half put together building.  “The boys and me just having a right game of footie.  A little fun doesn’t hurt, yeah?”

Zayn lifts one shoulder for a shrug, soliciting a contemplative expression that he hopes Liam believes.  He thinks he should go.  He wants Liam to stay.

Definitely not hung up.

He rolls his tongue over his lips, slow and not deliberate but he thinks it might come off that way like poetry mixed with porn.  He chuckles to himself, unconsciously lifting a thumb to smudge away crumbs and something sticky from the corner of Liam’s mouth.  His next breath holds tightly to his esophagus and everything’s spinning because he doesn’t pull away as quickly as he should.

Liam’s got a warmness, fond and overeager, running over his face as his fingers catch around the bones of Zayn’s wrist.  They burn in the kind of way Zayn hates – like that one poem by Pablo Neruda he had to memorize during Tenth Year – dusting horizontal lines across his eyes.  The sun beats down, unforgiving, and he’s trying to breathe properly when Liam’s fingers lower his hand – not before his thumb sweeps over Zayn’s knuckles.

Liam chuckles, unsure, before his teeth nip at his bottom lip.  “Me sister makes an incredible apple tart.  Leftovers from her visit.  S’ppose I’m a bit messy.”

 _You’re a thief_ , Zayn thinks but it all settles back down into his coiled stomach.  He rubs the sticky residue into the palm of his own hand, loves the way the skin sticks together as Liam backs away a little.

“I should go,” Zayn breathes out and it feels like _goodbye_.  It tastes bittersweet but appropriate.

Liam hums, easily passing the ball from hand to hand like he was born to play this sport.  Like he’s the definition of a sporty, a right professional at things like this.  Things like making Zayn’s heart hammer and he’s irritated by how easily he’s engrossed in this stupid boy.

“Studying?” Liam wonders, his voice aloof and he’s as cheeky as Harry when he’s really trying to.

 _Oh_.

Zayn tips his head back, the sun warm and bright on his skin.  “Living.”

Liam snorts at that, everything defiant and cocky about his expression melting away into something goofy.

“Work.”

“Probably,” Zayn replies evenly, nodding again toward the calls of his mates, the rustle of hammering and thumping but it sounds muted against Zayn’s heavy breathing, his heavier thoughts.

“It was uh,” Liam looks small and hopeful in that way that distracts Zayn, “nice meeting you, Zayn.  Just Zayn, yeah?”

Zayn laughs, a tickling sound that pierces his ears.  “Maybe.”

“Maybe you’ll tell me more one day?” Liam asks, still inching backwards toward the dirt and another world Zayn won’t understand just like he supposes Liam will never understand Frost or the imperfections of Brown.

Zayn nips at his bottom lip, teeth pinching the flesh until this smile beating to get out feels bearable.

“Doubtful.”

There’s a small frown loose against Liam’s lips but it only holds for a moment.  He’s ignoring the calls of Andy, the whistles from the others to lift his brow and smile at Zayn.

“You pass by here a lot,” Liam states, wrestling back into that armor of confidence.  “You might, I don’t know, see me again.  Or not.”

Zayn’s wide-eyed, batting back surprise but he’s awful at schooling his expressions – “You wear your heart on your sleeve too much, love,” his mum once told him.  He wishes she was wrong.

“Possibly,” Zayn says, inching his own feet over the broken ground, the wrecked sidewalk that’s sort of always been like this.

“I’ll bring _the Last Arkham_ and _Year One_ , yeah?  You can bring coffee and haikus,” Liam proposes, still grinning, still walking backwards like he won’t trip over the yellow tape or barrels of hay.

Zayn arches his brow high and he wants to tell Liam he hates haikus, prefers sonnets but that seems superficial and completely archaic.  He settles for a small smile, shaking his head.

“I’m kind of a Marvel guy,” he calls out, still dazed off the way the city sounds seem quiet compared to the brilliance of Liam’s smile.

Liam grabs at his chest like he’s wounded, mock frown folding over his lips before the corners lift, brown eyes softening.  “ _Thor_ then?  No, you look like the kind of lad who likes Silver Surfer.”

 _You look like the kind of lad I want between my sheets later on_ , he thinks, smiling to himself.

He winces, trying to shake it all off before he’s turning away, never really replying to Liam.  He chances a glance over his shoulder, honey eyes still following him until Niall’s smacking his shoulder, Andy slapping the back of Liam’s head.  Zayn bites down sharply on that grin, choking on a laugh and needing a cigarette when Liam jumps and passes the ball to one of the smaller guys.

“You’re a donut, Payne,” Andy hisses just loud enough for Zayn to hear over the crowding streets.

“Smooth moves Li,” Niall adds, leaning on Liam’s shoulder, eyeing Zayn without pretense.  “He’s _fit_.”

“Shut it,” Liam huffs and they’re headlocks, playful tousles of hair before their game starts back up and Zayn imagines that, maybe, it’s more like _hello_ rather than _farewell_.

He tries to forget about all of it later on, sinking into the cushions of the couch with Louis’ feet tucked beneath his legs and Harry nestled close to him, eating pasta and pointing out all of his favorite bits in _Who Framed Roger Rabbit?_ – _“I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way.”_   It’s warm, warm, the sun freckled behind a dusting of pink clouds and the blue making way for dull purples.  He’s rereading _Days of Future Past_ for the sake of it though part of him wants to search through his boxes of ‘childhood shit’ for a copy of _Death in the Family_ because, well.

He thinks about the curve of Liam’s smile, the little simplicity in his eyes but the extraordinary world hidden behind those lashes.  He bites endlessly at his lip until it’s raw, almost bleeding, and contemplates catching up on his introductory Literary Theory course but he’s considering smoking away loud, achy thoughts of dopey smiles and large eyes.

“Share,” Louis whines, reaching over Zayn to snatch away crusty bread dipped in marinara sauce.

“Twat,” Harry grumbles but he’s still offering Louis a forkful of noodles to accompany the bread.

Louis smiles around the fork before drawing back, resting his head on Zayn’s shoulder, tapping out melodies over Zayn’s ribs.

“You’re moody,” Louis says a little too affectionately like this is how he likes Zayn: brooding, fucking typical poet with tears and anger and depression thriving.

“’m not.”

“He’s _Zayn_ ,” Harry whispers like it’s a secret before he’s chuckling, cuddling closer.

Louis shrugs carelessly, swayed breaths.  “Zayn needs to get laid.”

“Don’t we all?” Harry wonders and Louis’ laughter rings a little louder than everything Zayn’s thinking about.

Still, he wonders if he can recite his favorite parts of _the Dark Knight Rises_ against the crook of Liam’s neck, fingers circling his chest in the dark.

**

“He’s just a boy.”

Walsh’s Tavern, buried behind the winking lights of the city, all soft whites, bright reds, ambers and flickers of blue, may have the best pints this city has to offer but Zayn prefers Old Mill’s Pub, far too many streets over from his flat.  It’s bucketed by a candy shop, a few boutiques that really don’t have anything posh to offer but make up for it in good prices, and a nice Italian restaurant that offers greasy pizzas and endless bowls of fresh cooked spaghetti.

It’s a smoky place he’s been ditching in and out of since he was seventeen with a fake ID and too many nights dragging Danny out before a brawl erupted over some dishy bird.  There’s round tables, a long stretched out bar that’s blanketed by the kind of poor lighting that seems homely with loud music and the sort of people that feel decent, respectable compared to the massive Uni crowd that towers Walsh’s.  It’s a bit pricey for the imported tequila and rounds of bourbon on the rocks but Zayn doesn’t mind the almost flat beer or leftover peanuts in favor of the atmosphere.

It tastes like _peace_ and he clings to it like it’s the last breath of simplicity this growing city has to offer.

Maybe he loves it just as much because Doniya – his older sister who’s all quirked up smiles, thick dark hair, and endless reminders that, yes, she _is_ older – tends bar a couple nights out of the week and she always feels like home.  She smells like his mum’s cooking, ruffles his hair even when he’s perfectly quaffed and memorable, and listens to him when he feels like the rest of the world forgot he had a voice.  She’s patient grins, a knowing look behind those caramel eyes, and glass after glass of beer never seems to faze the way he thinks she’s pretty amazing at just being Doniya.

“They’re always _‘just a boy.’_   I’ve spent years being in love with one ‘just a boy’ after another,” Doniya says with the lift in her smile, cleaning out a few freshly rinsed mugs.

Zayn nods, tapping his nimble fingers over the beaten wood of the bar – he still traces over the ‘ _Malik Forever_ ’ he etched into the grain years ago with a pair of house keys – to the beat of Simple Minds.  He chews on his lower lip, listening to the rumbling chatter and the cheers over some footie game he doesn’t have half a mind to pay attention to.

“Well, he is.”

Doniya gives him that knowing look – condescending but polite all at once – before she’s tilting her head a little.

“What’s he do?”

Zayn shrugs because, really, he doesn’t _know_.  He doesn’t know anything about Liam or what he does or what his ambitions are.  Still, he only avoids walking down that crumbled up street a few days before he’s following his routine path again and sharing little smiles with Liam as he passes, never stopping though his heart says otherwise.

“Construction?  Something with his hands.”

“I bet you’d love for him to do something with his hands,” Doniya teases, sliding him a glass of frothy beer before reaching across the bar to tangle her fingers in his already mussed and fluffy hair.

Zayn makes a face, jerking back from her touch.  “You’re irrational.”

“And you’re daft,” she counters, hands on her hips with a dishtowel thrown over her shoulder.  There’s a challenging glimmer to her eyes and he’s never been good at winning this war.

“He’s just a – “

Doniya sighs wildly, tossing her hair back.  “Smashing.  Then forget about him.”

“I already have,” Zayn insists except he hasn’t entirely done that.  In fact, he doesn’t even know if he’s tried.

“Liar,” Doniya says, sticking out her tongue and he hates how she calls him on it.  She always does.

“Fuck off,” Zayn laughs out and the sound doesn’t feel familiar but it tickles his stomach until she’s laughing with him, rubbing a hand over the back of his in a comforting way like she knows.

She _always_ does.

He pulls out a cigarette, lighting it before Doniya winces and he knows she hates when he does this – hours over warm beer, each new cigarette chasing the one before, with books surrounding him, and a litany of words like Dickinson and Bernard Shaw to comfort whatever lax thoughts overrun him.  But she’s far from judging, one of her better qualities, and he makes up for it with good tips and shared smiles.

“You’ll make Sunday dinner, yeah?” she wonders, wiping at a few more clean mugs while biting down on her lower lip – a trait borrowed from their mum – with her eyes flicker from customer to customer before falling on him.

Zayn wrinkles his nose at her, a half-smile lifting over his lips.  He’s chapters behind in Russian Literature, really needs to put in some time on his readings, and he wanted to sneak off to the lower parts of the city to snatch up a few comics, maybe bum a few quid off Louis to watch _Iron Man 3_ for the _ninth_ time in months.

“I’ll try – “

Doniya briskly holds a finger up, shaking her head.  “Don’t give me that shit, Z.  You know mum expects you there and Safaa’s been dying to show you how great she’s become at baking.”

He smiles, wide and genuine.  He misses Safaa, Waliyha too.  And he can’t deny that his mum’s cooking, though sometimes a bit dry or overdone, feels more like home than any stretch of this city ever will.  And, well, Chekov isn’t exactly his idea of a smashing Sunday anyway.

“Promise to make tikka masala?” Zayn pleads, the corners of his lips quirking higher.

“Z,” Doniya sighs, rubbing at her brow before a grin spokes over her mouth.  She’s rolling his eyes when something gleeful passes over his face, swatting her towel at him.  “Fine, but don’t be late.”

 _I’m always late_ , Zayn thinks but he nods instead, eyes crinkling just around the edges with his smirk.

He takes in a few more puffs, listening to the rumbled sounds of laughter, glasses clinking, a few stray cheers for a game that seems long forgotten amongst the dust and alcohol.  He trades off grins with Doniya as she waits on customer after customer, slinging mugs of beer, tall glasses of cider, shot glasses filled with every color in the spectrum before she’s flirting her way through tips and peanuts.  He thumbs through a few select passages of Lord Byron for fuck’s sake while munching on a basket of chips, his tongue licking out to clean away the salt from his fingertips.  He can’t help the smirk he passes to a beautiful blonde who’s watching him, glossy smile defined with gray-blue eyes a little too obscured by thick streaks of mascara.  She’s not all that interesting – not that he doesn’t find, you know, _interest_ in women; he still does – with her batting lashes and little smirks like she’s trying to hold his attention.

It’s just… Well, he doesn’t know.

Or maybe he does but admitting that feels quite silly and childlike.

There’s a sea of people pushing through the doors of the pub, gathered together with laughter and smiles and everything so warm, inviting.  The smoke’s barely settling in his lungs when he watches a blonde stumble through, cheeks sizzled red with crystalline eyes and the kind of smile that was unforgettable.  His next breath, choked and chased off by evaporated smoke, comes out rough when the blonde – _Niall_ – is followed by a small group and Liam’s trailing toward the ends of the pack.

Zayn’s been called a lot of things in life – exotic, mysterious, intriguing.  He feels boring is a more accurate word when he looks on Liam.  Liam is warm smiles, crinkled brown eyes that shine a nice caramel color in this dusty lighting.  He’s a sleepy warmth with those bits of scruff still lining his sharp jaw and his hair is nearly hidden beneath a backwards snapback – it’s not quite as silly as Niall’s is and Zayn thinks, with a grin, it suits Liam more.  His Batman shirt – the classic logo from the television show Zayn’s mum used to haul him to their ratty couch to watch – clings to his chest, stretches tightly over those wide shoulders and his jeans hang low; _very_ low.  He’s got one of those smiles that sticks to a child’s mouth after an ice cream cone, wide and bright.  Zayn thinks the world probably never picked out these lovely things about Liam and, fuck the world, he can’t help but feel enamored by it all.  He’s incredibly interesting and Zayn feels… well, _alive_ while watching Liam.

There’s aching stars beneath Zayn’s skin and the belly of the ocean weighing down his tongue as he watches Liam follow the others to a booth, a nearby table, all of the workers crowding in and creating a fuzzy soundtrack of belligerence that seems fitting.  He inhales a quick drag of smoke, rolling it in his mouth, breathing it out through his nose before it drags through his chest.  His fingers tap along the beaten down wood and he feels a rush of heat stinging his cheeks when Liam lifts his eyes, catches Zayn from across what feels like a sea of distance.

“Something you like?” Doniya teases, leaning over the counter.

Zayn scoffs, dropping his head some but he knows he can’t hide the bite of pink on his cheeks.  He rubs at his chin instead, breathing in another puff of smoke before sipping slowly on his beer.  The sour taste slides along his tongue and it cools him just enough.

“You’re awful.”

“And you’re smitten,” Doniya remarks, the lights of the world too bright when he looks up at her.  She’s chuffed, cat-like eyes hovering over his face.

Zayn shrugs and he knows he can’t downplay it.  With Harry, maybe.  With Louis, probably.  With Doniya?  Not a fucking chance.

His short nails drag on the surface of the glossy wood, catching bits of it, and he licks at his lips.  Words escape him so quickly – he thinks of Poe, Orwell, the fucking streamline of Nicholas Sparks that he only knows because of Harry and his obsession with silly romance films – and he merely finishes off his cigarette before flipping her off.

Doniya’s hand rests on his shoulder, gentle, before she’s grinning and saying, “’s okay Z.  Happens to the best of us, even if he is just a boy.”

He waves her off after that, smiling soundly, chancing little glances over his shoulder to see if Liam still notices him.  Eyes meet, reaching over an audience of drunks, flirtatious women, cheering fans, and he swallows that last bit of smoke each time Liam grins at him.  And that’s all it is – little looks, smiles, nothing that resembles permanence.

He’s thankful for that.  It provides the kind of escape he’s willing to take.

He doesn’t know why he sticks around.  He blames it on Doniya and her need for company amongst the strangers, some of the same people they’ve known most of their lives.  Maybe he doesn’t feel like diving into a pile of textbooks, cups of scalding coffee, cuddles from Harry while he tries desperately to grasp the concept of foreign policies and civil wars.  It’s not the beer or the too hot pub that’s now a bit crowded with faces drawn into the footie match above.  Maybe it’s the noise – static-y and condensed – that drowns out the thunder of his thoughts, but he doubts it.

His leg jiggles while he watches any and everything but Liam.  He grins as Niall takes a shot at the blonde from earlier, lips curling around the neck of a beer bottle as Niall puts forth what looks to be his best effort.  It’s a bit ineffective and leaves Niall’s tab longer and the blonde’s interest waning.  There’s a crowd of young Uni kids around a couple of the tables, loud and burning on the energy of beer, shots of whiskey, and their team losing miserably.  A set of middle-aged women sip their colorful cocktails, compare husband’s salaries, and go on about suburban life outside of the city.  There’s the stumbling customers, the ones that slur out their next drink order to Doniya and she waters each glass down with perked up smiles and gracious _‘thank you’s.’_

The music rocks through the speakers above between plays – it’s all Passion Pit, Rolling Stones, Tina Turner, bits of Katy Perry and that annoying Demi Lavato song that he once sort of adored – and he pretends not to notice the way some of the guys try to drag the far too sober women toward the middle of the bar to dance.  He laughs at each of Liam’s coworkers, who cheer for every goal and chug down beer after beer.  They try their own hand at a few of the women and fail just as miserably but it’s comical like one of those fraternity films Louis loves.

“You’re all complete shit at this,” Niall says loudly, laughing and wiping stains of beer from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You’re no better Horan.”

“Horan’s a complete wanker.”

“Fucking tosser.”

“And you all love me still,” Niall laughs back and there’s a round of agreement that’s mumbled but still loud.

Andy slams down a shot, smirking.  “We _tolerate_ you.”

“You tolerate your fucking dick because it’s too small to get any one of these birds off, you prick,” Niall hisses, still smiling and Zayn thinks he’s probably _that_ kind of guy.  The one that could completely murder your feelings with a smirk that makes you think he was being nothing other than kind.

“Now lads,” Liam says with a small smirk, a hand resting on one of Niall’s shoulders, the other on Andy’s.  He gives them both a small shake, tilting his chin upward.  “You’re _both_ quite daft when it comes to winning someone over.”

“Bullshit,” Andy barks out, his laugh rounding out the clunky guitars of a Foo Fighters song – _There goes my hero; watch him as he goes_.

“For fuck’s sake Li,” Niall says with a sigh, still smirking.  “You’re rubbish when it comes to someone you like.  ‘s what Dani said, yeah?”

“Danielle was a fucking twat,” Andy snaps, swallowing back another shot.

Niall rolls his eyes promptly while Liam smiles sheepishly, his hand cupping the nape of his neck shyly.  He ducks his head – _There goes my hero; he’s ordinary_ – and they move on from there, beers chugged, hoots for another winning run down the pitch, and Zayn watches the way Niall’s arm slides around Liam’s shoulder like _comfort_.  They curl to each other, smiling, and Zayn leans back while chewing his bottom lip, thoughts meandering.

He misses half of the celebration when West Bromwich wins the game, puffing on a cigarette – _or two_ – outside in the cold air that’s blanketed by a dark purple sky, searching for the stars among the dead skyline.  He considers leaving, again, but not before sliding back inside, fingertips numb, to see Doniya once more.  He lets her slide him a tall glass of cider, tipping up a smile at her because there’s something in her eyes that reminds him of childhood.  He chews on his thumbnail, smiling behind his knuckles as Niall dances across the floor with some dishy redhead, Andy cornering a brunette with something carnal in his expression and something dizzy and bladdered in hers.

Zayn’s teeth are sliding over the edge of chapped lips when a throat is cleared, quiet fingers tapping lightly over his shoulder.  His head lifts a little too quickly, everything hazy, dizzy when he looks at Liam.

Those round shoulders are a little slumped, a foot dragging over the dusty hardwood, his chin lowered a little.  Liam’s teeth are biting at his own lip, something dopey and shy on his face that lifts the corners of Zayn’s lips just a little.  His thumb circles the tip of his glass, everything still and quiet as Liam’s lashes flutter over his cheeks and there’s a rush of blush flushing his neck, the tops of his ears.  He’s not nervous – _drunk_ , maybe – because there’s something sure and determined in those amber eyes and it unsettles Zayn in the most gorgeous way.

“Hey.”

“’ello,” Zayn says, leaning back some.  He turns on his stool, elbows resting on the bar behind him.

Liam’s close, the heavy scent of minty body wash, dulled cologne, something boyish filling Zayn’s lungs.  He looks just as he did that day – a soft face, strong build, a bit standoffish but not in an off-putting way.

Liam clears his throat again, his voice strained this time when he says, “Me mates think I’m shit at this.”

“At what?” Zayn asks curiously, scratching dull nails over the side of his neck where the stubble fades off.

Liam smirks, straightening.  He jerks his head toward the makeshift dance floor that’s really just a small space where all the circular tables aren’t huddled together.

Zayn traces his eyes over the small space – it’s _tiny_ , really – before running hazel-gold over Liam.  He lifts his eyebrows high until they’re nearly kissing his hairline before his teeth drag in his bottom lip again.  And Liam’s steady, a little more confident, willing.  He feels like Zayn’s _ex post facto_ – something Harry taught him during a very intense study session that first year when they were curled beneath piles of blankets and buzzing from too many cups of some rank Starbucks coffee – and Zayn doesn’t know why he doesn’t balk completely at the way Liam looks at him.

“I _don’t_ ,” Zayn starts, catches the way something curls up on Liam’s lips, “dance.”

Liam snorts, head shaking.  “ _Everyone_ does.  Not exceptionally well, but everyone does.”

“I don’t.”

Liam’s head leans to the side a little, a newborn with wide eyes.  “You ‘aven’t tried.  Not with me, at least.”

“I don’t want to,” Zayn insists, eyebrows furrowing.

“Really?” Liam wonders and he sounds a little wounded, something that sticks to Zayn’s chest uncomfortably.

Zayn breathes out a small sigh, fingers gripping at the wood of the bar.  “I don’t think so.”

Liam grins at that, inching forward and Zayn’s barely realized there’s enough space for him to do that.

“I’d like a chance,” Liam says, nearly whispers with a hand outstretched like that first day.  He’s teetering on some sort of heroism that’s daunting and breathtaking, thick fingers reaching all the way to circle one of Zayn’s wrists.

Zayn flinches a little, Liam remaining still, and he thinks about shaking Liam off.  He thinks about lighting up another fag, waving Doniya farewell, and dusting off this night with an hour of C.S. Lewis and herbal tea.

He hates that he doesn’t follow instinct.

“I’m shit at it,” Zayn mutters but he’s standing anyway, shaky on his feet and his spine feels coiled.

Liam blinks at him, drawing in his bottom lip, glowing like a five year old.  “You sure?”

Zayn laughs at that, fucking throbs with the sound because, yeah, he _is_.  He’s honestly horrible at things that resemble dancing and choreography and he remembers Ant once trying to teach him all the cool tricks from the music videos that flooded MTV early in the morning.  He remembers falling more than once, licking at the cement floor of Ant’s basement with a furrowed brow, swollen lip, and Ant’s laughter bouncing off the thick walls.

Liam’s fingers slide down Zayn’s wrist, leaving behind an achy trail of fire, before they coil around Zayn’s and fit into the spaces between.  Zayn reflexively squeezes back, trembling – not enough for Liam to see – as Liam grins at him.  Just the shifting silence like the shadows of your bedroom when the moon is high and sparkling through an open bedroom window.  Just that goofy grin on Liam’s lips and, fuck, Zayn’s following him to that small space that feels even more cramped now that Niall’s leading another girl – this one has large tits, wavy brown hair, the kind of lopsided smile only certain boys could love – through a slow spin and an elderly couple is doing a cute shuffle like the last dance at prom.

It’s strange, the way he instinctively knows not to train his eyes on Liam’s yet he can’t help but to.  He holds onto a breath when one of Liam’s hands rests on the small of his back, fingers finding the groove and the dip, bodies closer than Zayn’s expecting.  He bites down on his lower lip, averting the little looks he knows are falling on them – suspicious ones from Andy, hearty ones from Niall, a fond one from Doniya that’s blanketed beneath her own uncertainty – and he’s can’t look anywhere but into a pair of brown eyes.  They’re freckled with gold, little slits of emerald that keep Zayn engrossed through the first few bars of something unfamiliar.

Liam’s gentle, his cheeks, his smile, the way he guides Zayn.  Zayn’s hands are a little unsure, resting lightly on Liam’s hips, fingers finding the indentations awkwardly.  Liam’s other hand is cupping the back of Zayn’s neck, a thumb sweeping over his skin, fingertips running against the short hairs back there.  He’s swallowing quick breaths and Liam’s so open with his smile, with the way he hums along – _And it starts sometime around midnight. Or at least that’s when you lose yourself for a minute or two._ His thumb is pressing into Zayn’s back and Zayn’s obediently shuffling forward until, _fuck_ , they’re even closer.

“Not so bad?” Liam wonders, everything dim around them like a little spotlight from above.

Zayn bites on a grin, shaking his head.  “Not completely.”

“Thanks,” Liam laughs out, his head tipping back to expose his neck.  Zayn wants to drag his teeth over that milky column, lick at Liam’s birthmark until he’s panting out Zayn’s name.  It’s distracting until Liam’s looking at him again and everything feels soft, soft and silent.

“I was hoping I didn’t completely fuck this up for you.”

“You couldn’t,” Zayn says assuredly and he’s certain he looks more surprised than Liam does.

Liam smiles, quiet and sincere, nodding.  “Hoped you’d say that.”

Zayn shrugs, tries to play aloof but he’s not the actor Louis is.  He ducks his head, still watching Liam’s face.

He stares at the way Liam’s lashes beat against his cheeks, the way his smile curls and dips, the wiggle of his nose when Zayn looks on him too long like… like he doesn’t realize how _incredible_ he is to look at.  It stirs a giggle in Zayn’s stomach – he thinks of Dickinson and excerpts from something by Stephanie Meyer – before he’s pinching his fingers into Liam’s hips.

“You’re a distraction,” Zayn whispers, swallowing the rest of his words – _As you stand under the bar lights and the band plays some song about forgetting yourself for a while_.

“How so?” Liam asks, leaning in.

Zayn tucks away a smile, schooling his expression until it’s not so obvious.  How fucking obvious that he’s completely dazed by this stupid boy.

Zayn shrugs again, his shoulders lifting a little less.  He traces his eyes over Liam’s arms, the way the muscles are bunched, down his slow lifting chest that’s nearly pressed to Zayn’s.  There’s just enough space that Zayn barely feels the brush of Liam’s crotch over his and he thinks the older woman dancing next to them is _tsk’ing_ at their closeness, a little disapproval in the way she clears his throat.  Zayn grins and moves in closer, chest to chest, his forehead to Liam’s like a giant _fuck you_ and _goodbye_ to the world.

“I should be studying,” Zayn says even softer, eyelashes beating against his own cheeks.  He studies Liam’s mouth instead – _And so there’s a change in your emotions_ – and he wonders how soft those lips are.  They’re shiny from Liam’s tongue, full and slightly parted.

“Seems that’s what you’re always doing when I see you,” Liam says back, lips moving into a smirk.

Zayn snorts, feels Liam’s forehead pressing firmer to his.  “Observant.”

“I try to be,” Liam mumbles, his hand sliding higher up Zayn’s back.  Zayn’s fingers curl around the jutting bone of Liam’s hips and he sighs into a breath.

“This is… _different_ ,” Zayn mutters, everything washed out compared to the gold layered in Liam’s eyes.

“Different,” Liam repeats, the corners of his mouth dragging upward.  “You don’t usually dance with lads?”

Zayn chokes on a laugh, Liam’s fingers playing along to the melody across the back of Zayn’s neck – _And you feel hopeless, and homeless, and lost in the haze of the wine._

“’m like _that_ ,” Zayn says, a little strained and low.  There’s a smile sparking over his lips when Liam lifts his eyebrows.  “With lads, I mean.  ‘m like that.  I like lads.”

Liam hums his approval and Zayn feels the peppering of blush drumming along his cheeks.  He lowers his eyes once more, their chests rising and falling together in syncopation.  He likes it, likes the rush of blood through his stream and the coil around his stomach when Liam’s hand shifts low again, just above the curve of Zayn’s ass.

“Me too.”

Zayn laughs at that, soft and tangled.  If anything, Liam is obvious.

“Do you always,” Zayn pauses, pulling back a little.  He wants, no, _needs_ to see the glow of Liam’s face, the way those cheeks look touchable and velvety.  “Dance with lads?  Approach strangers at a pub late at night?”

Liam wrinkles his brow some, swaying gently with Zayn.  They’re sharing the lead now, just a slow rock that moves them around in a semi-circle.

“We’re not strangers.  We know things about each other,” Liam notes, his lips turning downward.

Zayn narrows his eyes, pulling in his bottom lip.  “Such as?”

“You go to the University and you study Lit.  You like coffee and smoking.  You like Batman, like I do.  Marvel too,” Liam explains, determination floating on the wings of his words.  He’s earnest when he says, “You take the same walk every day, sometimes before four, sometimes right at noon.  You like to read while walking and you never smile.  Well, not all the time.”

“I do,” Zayn counters but he’s not really arguing.  He’s just… fuck, he doesn’t _know_.

Liam smirks, nodding.  “You do.  At least, you do more when I see you now.”

Zayn hates that he blushes at that, hates the way his thumbs trace just under Liam’s shirt to feel a breath of skin.  He feels hot and weighed down and Liam’s smile is so fucking gleeful that he wants to kiss it off.

“That enough?” Liam asks, strong fingers dancing along Zayn’s spine.

Zayn wants to say _yes_ and more but he swallows instead, looking away.  He breathes in cheap smoke, the edge of alcohol, everything tasting like Liam along his tongue and he realizes he’s drawing little circles over Liam’s hip like _I want more_ , maybe, _you ruin me_.

“There’s more,” Zayn whispers, finally looking back at Liam.

Liam nods, his smile a little smaller.  He looks focused, barely affecting by the mugs of beer he’s swallowed in the few hours they’ve lingered around here.  Zayn runs his tongue over his lips, slow, slow, and Liam’s watching him, grinning.

“Does that mean I’ll get a chance to find out more?” Liam wonders, pulling back a little more until the distance feels too much and Zayn’s cold.  “Like your last name, perhaps?”

Zayn snickers, leaning into the way Liam’s fingers draw over the side of his neck, up a little until they’re pressing behind Zayn’s ear.

“Malik,” he says quickly, inching all the way back before he ends up scurrying closer and writing the story of his life across Liam’s mouth with raw kisses and a slick tongue.

He rubs at the back of his head, feeling weightless and cloudy as Liam bites at a grin, nodding.  He watches Liam shove his hands into the pocket of his jeans, shoulders slumping forward again and the space between them feels limitless again.  It’s easier to breathe and Zayn needs that.

He needs a smoke and a long walk in the cold and Harry cuddling to his left, Louis nuzzling to his right.

“I look forward to it.  At least, I hope I get a chance,” Liam says, his voice a little choked and unsure but his smile says otherwise.  His stupid snapback is pushed back, bits of his hair sticking out and he’s stumbling backward, not before adding, “See you Zayn.  Zayn Malik.”

Zayn nods at him, his skin still on fire from the bursts of stars Liam’s fingers left in their wake.  He longs for the touch again, pressure building, but he hides it with a small wave before spinning on his own heels.  He waves off Doniya whose all smug smiles, winks, and teasing words as he rushes from the pub and lets the sticky September air cool his skin once more.

He takes in a large gulp of the chilly air and, fuck, he needs to get home.  But he doesn’t know why Liam’s strong arms feel like _home_ now; at least a small piece of it.

And all he thinks, once he’s alone in his bedroom with the ceiling caving in and the dark circling him, is _Liam_.

 _Liam Payne_.

**

When he was younger, Zayn would read C.S. Lewis, warm and fuzzy beneath the duvet, and watch Doniya paint while she bobbed her head along to Fall Out Boy.  He thinks he’ll forever associate things like Narnia and Aslan with complex verses and words like – _And sugar, we’re going down swinging. I’ll be your number one with a bullet_.  He doesn’t think, even now, that’s an awful thing.

Not now when he’s chasing slow sips of hot coffee with drags of a cigarette, Harry walking in long strides next to him, as they meander down Rivers Street.  He’s thinking about little details of those books, the way they were layered with religious principles and enthralling adventures that he could get lost in like the world doesn’t exist.  The way the music – _Lie in the grass, next to the mausoleum. I’m just a notch in your bedpost, but you’re just a line in a song_ – still rocks with the ebb and flow of time in his mind whenever Harry’s around.  He listens to Harry’s whines about the Romans and the Greeks and the complex world Julius Caesar created with a small smile, humming along like he’s paying attention to it all.

Harry speaks with a drawl, too slow, and his stories go on forever but Zayn sort of likes it.  It drags along his mind and it’s the kind of comfortable silence that sets in between them when Harry’s thoughtful and Zayn’s zoned out that he adores most.  It’s like those clunky guitars and heavy drums and he walks closer to Harry with fingers dragging back Harry’s horrid orange beanie to expose those soft curls.

“Lou never gets it,” Harry sighs, thumbing a text through his phone before he’s lifting a hefty textbook high in the air, _freedom of form and revolution_ , he thinks Harry would chant.

“Hmm,” Zayn hums, another quick sip of coffee before smoke curls over his tongue.

“It’s not about conformity or betrayal,” Harry declares, bright green eyes focused on the bits of rock scattered across the road.  “Though I think Lou would enjoy the orgies and wine.”

Zayn snorts, nodding.  Another slow swallow of something dark and aromatic before he’s puffing on his fag, blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth.  “Where is Lou?” he wonders, stealing little glances at the frown that folds over Harry’s lips.

 _Predictable_ and _infatuated_ ; two words Zayn thinks he could easily use on a rough draft of an essay about Harry Styles and his friendship with one Louis Tomlinson.

“Playing a game of footie with Stan and a few other clan members of the Louis Tomlinson Fan Club,” Harry says with a sneer, forcing out a laugh that Zayn doesn’t quite believe.

“Don’t be jealous,” Zayn warns, tugging on one of Harry’s curls.

Harry makes a face, a little gutted but not as intense as he is about history and all of its diverse meanings.

“I’m not at all,” Harry insists, shrugging away Zayn’s touch when Zayn releases a muted laugh.  “It’s nothing.”

“He still loves you Haz.  He’s allowed to have other best mates,” Zayn says, biting down on his lip.

Harry stutters in his walk, blinking at Zayn.  “Who says he’s my best mate?  You are.”

Zayn nods slowly and tries to believe Harry.  It’s not as though he’s offended; he learned long ago that Harry might be a little more enamored with Louis than he was with Zayn but it’s understandable.  It’s almost like hero worship – something Zayn remembers learning about while studying Greek mythology and the theoretical debates over Achilles and Patroclus – the way Harry had sort of fallen for Louis that first week they were all together.  He appreciates Harry’s consistency and his inability to admit otherwise.

“’m certain he’ll be quite excited to see you if you make him dinner,” Zayn notes, nudging his shoulder to Harry’s.  “That little fajita dish you make that he loves, yeah?”

Harry chokes on a laugh, his smile spreading like the idea’s crossed his mind.  “He’s mental.”

“Maddeningly so,” Zayn adds, smirking.  “But he’s our mate.”

“We’re idiots for keeping him around,” Harry sighs, still grinning.

Zayn thinks he’s an idiot for never locking Harry and Louis into the same room for hours until they admit that this little friendship of theirs is fraying at the edges of desperation.  He thinks he couldn’t stand to clean up the mess if things didn’t exactly coincide with the thoughts in his mind and a broken Harry isn’t exactly Zayn’s idea of a pleasantly wonderful flatmate.

He thinks Harry’s distracting enough that he misses the way they’re so close to something familiar, the jackhammering of machines and clunky noises and hammers that Zayn almost loses his footing over when they pass the construction site.  And it’s sort of unavoidable the way his eyes search out every inch of the area, looking for warm eyes, soft smiles, thick muscles that he still wants to anchor his legs to while Liam fucks mercilessly into him.

Fuck, the way his cock throbbed in the shower this morning, pulsing come over his fingers while he thought of those arms curled around his chest and Zayn’s hole stretched around Liam’s cock as Liam whispers thoughtful, poetic words into his ear still hurts.  But he’s carefully adjusting himself when Harry’s looking over the half-built orphanage too, fingers lingering just a little longer against the head trapped behind soft briefs and thick denim.

“Place’s a right mess, yeah?” Harry says, tucking his textbook to his side.  “Gonna be quite beautiful when it’s done.”

“You bet.”

Zayn inhales sharply at the sound of something Irish, the litany of that accent not in the least bit vague.

He shuffles his eyes to a pair of blue – sharp like crystals, wondrous like the Atlantic – ones that arc brighter than the smile resting on Niall’s lips.  He’s got smudges of dirt along his cheeks and bare arms – his affinity for tank tops more than a little disturbing now – and his hard hat is pressing down that fluffy, bleached out hair.  He’s leaning against the wiry fence, finishing off a cigarette that leaves the air thick with smoke.  Zayn sucks in a breath of his own, trying not to look at Niall with a brazen mixture of confusion and wonder and sadness.

The toe of Niall’s boot stubs at his fag, his grin still tipped brilliantly high like he lives for each breath he inhales.  Zayn’s a bit jealous of that but he doesn’t really voice it.  He slurps at his coffee instead, eyes flickering over the grounds again.  Still, nothing.

“He’s not here,” Niall says brightly, rubbing at his shoulder, leaving more smudges of dirt behind.

Zayn lifts his brow, tries not to look at the way Harry’s rises higher.

“I’m not – “

“Who is _he_?” Harry asks, his voice reaching high and girly.

Niall laughs, warm and stirring, a hand cupping his belly.  “Fucking brilliant, mate.  You haven’t even told one of your mates?”

Zayn chokes on his next inhale and Harry’s trading off wide-eyed glances between Zayn and Niall.  Blush burns over Zayn’s cheeks, sits naturally against Niall’s, and he thinks about walking off, leaving all of Harry’s question in the pile of rocks just outside of the construction site.

“ _He_ is _whom_ , Zayner?” Harry asks, lips curling into something smug and Zayn fucking hates it when Harry calls him that.  It’s annoying and Harry loves it.

Niall leans further into the fence, the metal shaking and bending to his compact form.  He looks over Zayn, tilting his head, a sideways grin on his lips.

“Can see his interest in ye,” Niall remarks, accent a little thicker, his voice smokier.  He slides his eyes over Harry for a moment, a touch of something wicked licking his lips before he adds, “Though I think, maybe, there’s a bit more to enjoy when given a chance, yeah?”

Harry wrinkles his brow and Zayn swallows a large gulp of smoke, drains the rest of his coffee in the next breath.

“ _Excuse me_?” Harry squeaks, folding his arms with wide green eyes.

Niall laughs, low and haunting, nodding at Harry.  “Horan.  Niall Horan.”

“And do you like your drinks shaken and not stirred, Mr. Bond?” Harry teases, pulling his beanie back down until it swallows his curls, rests just above his eyebrows, and he looks twelve years old.

Niall huffs out another laugh, lips curling like he wants _something_.

Zayn wasn’t expecting that.

“Back to this _guy_ ,” Harry drags out, every syllable caught on the end of his tongue and Zayn ducks his head, scrubs a hand down to his face in hopes of rubbing away the blush.

“It’s nothing.”

“It always is _something_ when you look like that,” Harry corrects him and Zayn thinks he could punch Harry if Harry weren’t so harmless and Bambi-like and, fuck, he should’ve walked down those side streets off Lee Avenue to get to their flat.  It would’ve been crowded but safer.  _Much_ safer.

Niall twists his lips a little, rubbing at his elbow before he’s muttering, “The guy fancies you.”

Zayn chokes on another breath, Harry’s smile turning demonic and wide.

“Fuck off,” Zayn mumbles, chewing at his lip and avoiding the way Harry’s fucking _beaming_ at him.

“I’d say that, whomever this chap is, would prefer that instead,” Harry laughs out and Zayn kicks at Harry’s shoe, scuffing those pristine boots he loves with the toe of Zayn’s scuffed-up Nike’s.

“Wanker.”

“Utter bullshit Malik,” Harry hisses, smacking Zayn’s arm and maybe he deserved that.  Harry deserves worse.

“Right,” Niall says, blinking on a smile before he leans off the wired fence.  His smile kips up a little when he looks at Zayn, stealing little glances at Harry still before he’s saying, “Liam’s out.  O’er with the contractors or summat.  He’s our unofficial foreman while his pops is out and the guy’s brilliant at dealing with ‘em.  Really looks out for us in the long run and etcetera.  Just a bunch of bullshit if ye ask me, but you didn’t so there you go.”

Zayn tries not to tumble along with all of Niall’s words, Harry grinning just a little too sharply, and he’s crushing out the last of his fag against the cement with the toe of his trainer.  He pulls at his leather jacket, the one that’s doing little to hide his vintage _X-Men_ shirt – not that he wore it subconsciously or anything to prove to Liam that, yeah, Marvel _is_ sort of superior – before striking his fingers over the sharp tips of his quiffed-out spikes.  He’s sliding his hands into the pockets of his jacket, the cool breeze of September aching down on them and rustling those scarlet-orange leaves across the road in a small tornado of nature.

He wishes he had a reason to rush off, maybe look over a few notes from his Upper Sixth Form Lit class that might help him with this silly paper he’s working on, but he kind of wants to linger back.  He wants to hear more about Liam and his father and everything that makes up that dopey kid that keeps raking at Zayn’s brain like a bad high.  He chews on his thumbnail, disengages himself from some conversation Harry and Niall start up about the weather to watch the way a crane drags steel from the ground.  He imagines Liam’s probably great at this – being the friendly leader of a pack of mindless wolves.  There’s nothing assertive about Liam, not outwardly, but Zayn thinks he could probably lead a crowd of devote religious fanatics into the pits of hell with just that smile.

Something curves against Zayn’s lips and his eyes bat shut, imaging the way Liam’s already leading his head and – fuck it all – his heart without even trying.

He shakes off the thought, the need for another cigarette and maybe something sweet like those juice cocktails Harry’s always making after midnight with a broken down blender and sleepy eyes pulling at him.  He lifts his collar, narrows his eyes at the way Harry and Niall are folding together so easily.  Not in a flirtatious way but like mates who haven’t seen each other in years.

It’s disturbing and Zayn, admittedly, is not okay with it.

“We should go,” Zayn suggests, sniffing at the dry air.  Niall’s cigarette still stings in the atmosphere – like those Marlboro’s Danny would smoke – and Harry’s humming something by Coldplay, a bad sign.

“But we just got here,” Harry huffs, dragging the heel of his boot over shaken rocks.

Niall nods, twisting his lips into a smile for Harry.  “He’ll be vigorously disappointed that you lot left before he got back.”

“Nice word use,” Harry chimes, grinning and nodding foolishly.

Zayn wants to vomit or kick Harry in the balls, whichever is less painful for himself.

“T’anks.  I browse Google here and there,” Niall says, looking pleased when something downy and pink strikes up against Harry’s cheeks.

“Fucking hopeless,” Zayn says under a breath and he’s already hooking his fingers into the belt loop of Harry’s impossibly tight jeans.  “We’re gonna go.”

Harry frowns a little, Niall nodding like he understands but he doesn’t.  He doesn’t get that Zayn doesn’t want to _see_ Liam.  He doesn’t want to look on those brown eyes and feel unable to find a proper excuse for why Liam’s a distraction.  Why he can’t focus on Bronte or Keats or why he thinks Liam probably reads like a good Ian Fleming novel.  He can’t explain to Liam, with that achingly soft smile and round nose, that he’s decided against dating boys this term – or until he graduates – because they’re just that… a fucking _distraction_.

He has goals, little achievements to look forward to.  Falling in love or having an incredibly great shag every now and again doesn’t fit into those plans.  It just doesn’t.

“See you soon then Zayner?” Niall wonders, taking a few sideways steps toward the grounds.

Zayn doesn’t hide his glare at Niall, nor does Harry hide his harking laugh.  Niall grins back, folding his nicely toned but pale arms over his chest and Zayn sighs out dejectedly.  He doesn’t respond though he knows Niall can read it in his eyes.

He’ll be back.  Fuck, he knows he’ll be back and he feels stupid because the thought alone draws up a grin on his lips that he can’t seem to hide from Harry.

**

“So there’s a boy?”

He truly _hates_ Harry Styles.  Well, no, he kind of loves him but he’s been expecting this for days.  He’s been expecting narrowed blue eyes, little slits that look like a newborn moon in this light, a quirked mouth, fingers rubbing idly at a scruffy chin, and Zayn’s securing his lips around the neck of a beer bottle to silence his words from Louis.

Zayn tips his head back, swallowing enough beer that it burns and fizzles down his throat.  Louis is still waiting, impatient and expectant, with fingers drumming along the wood of the bar and Doniya shuffling behind it with weary eyes.  He rubs at the end of his nose, searching the pockets of his jeans for a cigarette before he carefully rolls up the sleeves of his – no, actually, it’s _Harry’s_ – blazer.  He leans forward on the old wood, the soft creak of it drowned out by the sound of Patty Smyth’s roaring voice – _Darling, darling I’ll never understand how sometimes just the way you look at me can tear my heart but then again_.

“Lou,” Zayn says gently, resting his chin on his knuckles.  He squares his mouth sideways, catching the glint of distrust in Louis’ eyes.  “It’s nothing.”

“Fucking bullshit,” Louis says quickly, lips turning into a smile.  “Harry says – “

“Harry is a twat,” Zayn huffs, skidding the tips of his fingers over his gelled up quiff.  He doesn’t know why he bothered today but maybe he wanted to look like something resembling _normal_ rather than a struggling Uni student.

Louis smacks Zayn’s shoulder, heavy-handed and quick, before he’s saying, “Rude.  And he’s not.  He’s a sweetheart.”

Zayn rolls his eyes immediately, offering Louis an expectant look that matches Louis’ from earlier.

“You’re in love – “

“Fuck off Malik.  ‘s not true and you know it,” Louis snaps briskly, another swift smack landing against the sharp shoulder of Zayn’s jacket.

Zayn shrugs, tipping his beer back for another gulp.  “Okay.”

“Fuck right,” Louis hisses, his brow knit together as he drains half of his own beer.  His foot kicks against Zayn’s under the bar, eyes frolicking over the various screens to catch a game he likes.  “Besides, ‘s not like it’s hard to tell.  You’re, I don’t know, _different_.”

“Different,” Zayn repeats and it nudges against his tongue the way it probably did for Liam that night.  He smiles to himself, lowering his chin a little to hide it from Louis.

“You’re not as much of a prick some days, though you’re still quite the arse in the morning,” Louis points out, sipping at his beer and silently cheering for Chelsea.

“Need my coffee.”

“And a bowl of flakes, plus a large heaping of _manners_ young man,” Louis says with a licked out smile.  He knocks his shoulder against Zayn’s and Zayn grins – _And how can we explain this ball of flame? Locked up inside with our hands tied_.  They work like this – plain and simple without the dichotomy that encompasses most friendships.  Just witty banter and outright teasing and they survive.

“Is he nice?” Louis asks, leaning in a little.  He has a hand resting on Zayn’s shoulder, little comforting squeezes that do little to draw Zayn’s attention away from the way Doniya’s dishing out mugs of beer or the way one of the waitresses, Cher with her choppy hair, cheekily grins with a red lip, unabashedly shooing off a few customers who are either rude or just loud.

Zayn shrugs, lips curling around his beer again.  “Don’t know.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Louis says, waving it all off before he’s leaning closer to whisper, “Does he have a big cock?”

Zayn sputters on his beer, wiping at his mouth with the back of his head and he’s wide-eyed when he looks at Louis.  He’s pink, feverish, and what the actual _fuck_ Louis?

“I don’t fucking know, you arse,” Zayn hisses, playfully shoving at Louis and tickling his ribs.  “Didn’t bother to ask him that after he gave me his name.”

“You should’ve,” Louis tuts, leaning back a little to pinch at Cher’s side.  She swats at him and he grins.  He turns his eyes back on Zayn.  “It’s kind of important to know how big someone’s cock is if you’re going to have it down your throat or up your bum.  Not that I would know from, well, personal experience but I’ve heard these things.”

 _You’ve probably_ done _these things_ , Zayn thinks but he bites down on the tip of his tongue before the words can slip out.

He shakes his head, fanning Louis off.  “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m a mad genius who is going to save you months of walking funny if you listen to me, chap,” Louis proclaims and Zayn swallows the last of his beer, orders his next from Doniya before he can utter another word back.

“Ace choice in mates,” Doniya teases, sliding Zayn a beer before reaching across the bar to push Louis’ already slickly gelled hair back into place.  She offers him a wink and Louis salutes her with his beer, smirking.

“Christ,” Louis bites out, leaning back on his stool to watch another game in the distance.  “Ever since Tamas left West Bromwich, they’ve been shit.”

“Don’t let me mate hear you talk like that.  He fancies West Brom quite a bit.”

Zayn’s more than a little startled by that Irish accent – Mullingar, Zayn learns because the next time he makes his walk down Rivers, he actually stops to chat with Niall for more than five seconds but not more than thirty – but he doesn’t know why.  He once read Wilde’s words – _‘to expect the unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect’_ – and memorized them like a badge of honor.  He thinks, belatedly, he should’ve put more effort into learning the _meaning_ rather than the _words_.

“Who’s this creep?” Louis asks when Niall hangs off of Zayn’s shoulder with a kicked up grin – so completely comical and _Niall_ now that Zayn barely notices – and an extended hand toward Louis.

“Horan.  Niall Horan,” Niall beams and Zayn buries his smile behind his knuckles, face flushed and eyes hooded.

“Gross,” Louis scoffs and Niall lowers his brow a little, still thrusting his hand forward.  “Are you part of the hired help?  Do you work with Zayn’s sister?”

Niall wrinkles his brow this time, upper lip curling before he’s hissing, “No, I work with Zayn’s – “

Zayn doesn’t know where the strangled, aborted sound comes from at the back of his throat but it’s enough to silence Niall, that hand lowering back to his side but he’s still leaning on Zayn like they’ve been mates forever.

Somewhere, Zayn thinks Niall probably feels that way about loads of people.

“Just Niall,” Niall finally says toward Louis but he’s grinning at Zayn, shaking him a little.  His hair is a fluffy mess, almost styled but not quite, and the smile in those blue eyes is infectious in ways Zayn can’t quite fold into words.

“Niall,” Louis rolls out slowly, testing the shape of the letters on his tongue.  He makes a face, blue eyes nearly as bright as Niall’s before he’s saying, “Don’t like it.  Need to change it.  Ni?  Horanator?  How about _Bob_?”

“I hate Bob,” Niall groans, pushing at Louis’ shoulder.  Zayn chokes on a laugh when Louis shoots Niall an incredulous one that reads _‘Did you fucking really?’_

“Bob is for pricks.  Douchebags.  By law, ‘s a completely useless name.  Unless ‘s Spongebob and then ye totally ‘ave to understand,” Niall justifies in a way that sounds almost intelligent.  Almost.

Louis hums, nodding.  “Nialler?”

Niall nods back, grinning with those silly flushed cheeks reaching up higher.  “Mates call me that all the time.”

“And what does your girlfriend call you?”

“Sex god if I had one,” Niall teases back, leaning in particularly close and Zayn thinks Louis would deck him if he wasn’t so oddly fascinated by the boy.  “But I’m not very particular in _that_ department, y’know.  Quite fancy myself a nice chap e’ery once and ‘gain.”

Louis’ eyes blink wide, his brow shooting up into his hairline and Zayn’s swallowing a laugh with the first few sips of his new beer.

“I think I like you,” Louis says, settling again as he slouches back in his stool, reaching for the fresh beer Doniya’s set in front of him.

Niall shrugs, offhanded with his smirk and roaming eyes.  “Wouldn’t be the first, I tell ye.”

Zayn loves how those words fit conveniently into a compact space in his mind, right next to truer words like _‘hear my soul speak: the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service’_ by Shakespeare.  He wonders how often he’ll quote that to himself when he thinks about Liam.

He won’t, he promises himself, but he thinks of a select few verses from _As You Like It_ that might apply.

“He just got here, mate,” Niall says, not that Zayn asks and he tries not to search out the room for tanned skin, perfectly brown eyes, the kind of smile that lingers thickly against his mind when he’s trying to sleep and not dream.

“Missed half the game just to tend to his,” Niall stops himself short, half of his smile treading off.  He looks around, ominous eyes tempering as he scrubs fingers through that fallen quiff of blonde hair.  His lips part for another smile, this one a bit softer.  “He’ll catch up later, I know.  Lad’s a Man United fan too which is fucking insane but Li’s like that.  They play next, bloody wankers.”

Louis quirks an eyebrow, leaning on the counter while swallowing more beer.  “And you?”

Niall looks a bit taken aback, thumping a fist against his chest before he’s crowing, “I’m a countryman, through and through.  Ireland is home.”

Zayn flounders away from the chat, teeth pulling in his bottom lip when his eyes shuffle over the crowd and, as clichéd as it sounds, _there he is_.  Standing over a large circular table filled with the usual suspects – Andy, O’ Donohue, a few others that are still nameless to Zayn but he imagines they’re John, Paul, possibly Rex? – with a smile that glows, crinkled eyes that are colored cinnamon, muscular arms hidden beneath another plaid shirt that’s tighter, more fitting.  There’s something sideways about his smile, the way his stubble shades off parts of his jaw.  Those fuzzy eyebrows are lifted, head tipping back at a joke with his hands resting on the backs of two chairs.

His mouth quirks around the lip of the bottle, watching the way Liam eases from chat to chat with the kind of glee that surrounds a kid at Christmas.  He rubs idly at the nape of his neck, laughs heartily, looks dazed and chuffed all at once and Zayn finds it completely… _enamoring_.  It chases off thoughts of avoiding this dopey lad because, well, it’s impossible.

“So there _is_ a boy,” Louis whispers and Zayn shivers at Louis’ closeness, the way his lips play along the shell of Zayn’s ear.

Zayn chews on his bottom lip, something shy and vulnerable glazing over him when he meets a set of almond eyes.  He wants to blame gravity – or alcohol intake – for the way his head leans to the side a little to admire Liam, smiling at the way Liam shyly slides into a seat next to Andy, still looking over crowds of patrons to hold Zayn’s gaze.  He thinks of Greek mythology and tales of heroes defeating the odds and monsters and it all reminds him of Liam.

He’s a lion amongst beasts and that scares Zayn.

Zayn swallows a breath, holds it in his throat as Louis claps his hands on Zayn’s shoulder, shaking him a little.  He lets his eyes drift off from Liam – he thinks of Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent and the dynamics of the Justice League, smiling – before he pushes out, “Something like that.”

It feels accurate enough and Louis, with much restraint, leaves it at that.

When the next game starts up, Louis slides away with shot glasses of tequila, limes, and a pretty brunette named Eleanor that Zayn thinks he’s dating but Louis has never been good at keeping his attention on one particular thing for too long – he spent half of his first year flippantly moving from minoring in Psychology, Theoretical Science, Education, and Anthropology; none of which worked out.  Zayn drifts from beer to waters and bottles of root beer, smiling at Doniya while Cher teases him about the little looks he keeps darting at Liam – _“You haven’t been this on about a chap since…”_   Zayn really doesn’t care to think about him or the that first term of Milton, Larsson, and shagging some chap from his British Lit class in the shadows of the guy’s flat whenever his mates were out.  The sex was worthwhile, most times, but the conversation was droll and the connection was barren.

He thinks he’ll probably forever associate the name Marvin with the Drake song – _I’m just sayin’ you could do better_ – and meaningless notes about _Paradise Lost_.

“I need a round of beer and, if at all possible, maybe a few menus for me mates?  A little nosh might help with the alcohol.”

The voice alone is bright, a little nervous, stolen beneath a subtle smile that Zayn blinks up at the moment Liam sidles up next to him at the bar.  Cher throws a hand over her mouth, a noise choked at the back of her throat before she’s nodding quickly, scurrying away before Liam has to say anything else.

Zayn’s learning the angles of Liam’s jaw and chin, the way his mouth slides so easily into smiles.  He likes the way the dull lighting of the pub sweeps over Liam’s face, casting shadows and off-center streaks of warm glow over his skin.  He catches the way Liam bites at his lip sometimes – not as often as Zayn – and he’s thoughtful with his expressions, even the ones that are ridiculously silly and dopey.  There’s spinning gold and mint in his eyes, thick eyebrows lifted when Zayn looks at him a bit too long.

“Have you seen the new _Thor_ trailer?” Liam asks suddenly, his words tangled.  He’s rubbing at his neck again, vulnerable and devoid of his usual clarity.  Zayn chews on his lip, blinking at him before Liam’s stumbling out, “Of course you have.  Silly of me.”

Zayn snorts, streaking his fingers over the wood of the bar.  They slide off water spots, caress the bottom of his bottle.

“I can’t wait,” Zayn says, his voice lifted above the sounds rounding out the bar.

Liam blinks out a grin, the corners of his mouth pulled up tightly.  “Me too.  Loki is a gangster.”

Zayn chuckles, his thumb idly moving until it brushes just the edge of Liam’s hand.  He thinks about pulling away but Liam’s index finger slides that small gap and then suddenly it feels right.  Suddenly, he doesn’t mind the little touches and the way it’s making his heart slide up his throat.

“I’ve thought about you quite a lot,” Liam admits, his voice low and Zayn’s nearly devastated by the flood of pink that rushes Liam’s cheeks.

“Interesting,” Zayn hums out because all of the other words in his throat – _I think about you too, I want to kiss you, can I have your number?_ – are too heavy for his tongue to lift out.

Liam nods, his smile dipping a little.  “’s bad, yeah?”

Zayn laughs, slow and honey-thick.  He shakes his head, his thumb rubbing over Liam’s knuckle.  “Not at all.”

There’s something so interesting about the way Liam’s mouth quirks, the way he’s goofy and teenage-like just that quickly.

“There’s, uh, there’s this Indian cuisine… well, it’s a restaurant.  Sort of small, really.  Like a café?  It’s down along Brown Street, just before Maple, yeah?” Liam stumbles, ducking his head.  His fingers drum out the words.  “And it, well, it has some really good curry and these pastries with beef – “

“Samosas,” Zayn interjects, his tongue pressing firmly against the back of his teeth with a smile.

Liam grins back, nodding quickly.  “They’re incredible.”

“Me mum makes some great ones with mincemeat,” Zayn notes, eyes dropping away.  He needs to think about Russian Lit and the effects of American authors on novels.  He should really finish rereading _the Deathly Hallows_ again because it’s distracting enough that he doesn’t feel the need to look up into those sparking brown eyes for too long.

Liam’s teeth slide against his bottom lip, his brow drawn together.  He clears his throat, blinking at Zayn.

“Right.  Uh, ‘m probably bothering you.  I’m a donut.  I will just,” Liam swallows his next few words, pulling away a little.  He signals to Cher to bring the tray of beers and waters and stacked up menus toward their table.  “I’ll go.”

Zayn lowers his brow, his mouth dropping open as Liam tries to slide past a few other customers settling up to the bar.  His arm brushes Zayn’s and his expression says _goodbye_ , something Zayn hates.

It feels like a tsunami, the rush of winter over your bones, and Zayn’s lifting his hand, reaching outward before the repercussions settle in his mind.  He’s twisting his fingers into the collar of Liam’s shirt, wrinkling the material, dragging him back until Liam’s almost stumbling but Zayn’s strong in that moment.  He’s fastening his hands to Liam’s waist, holding him steady until Liam’s slotted between Zayn’s legs and they’re _close_.  He can taste the beer and minty gum on Liam’s tongue and they’re so fucking close.

“ _Leeyum_ ,” Zayn says, soft but whiny and he smiles at the way Liam’s eyebrows lift.

He likes this, the way Liam’s hands find his arms, settling there.  He likes the way his hands instinctively run upward until his thumbs can stroke over Liam’s jaw, the tips buzzing with the prickly hairs of Liam’s stubble.  There’s something a little unsure and helpless in Liam’s eyes like speckled paint thrown against the wall.  He inches up, Liam leaning downward until their foreheads are touching and it feels like _hello_ again, a feeling Zayn wants to grow accustom to when it comes to Liam.

“Will it be a date?” Zayn wonders, still grinning.

“Would that be too forward?” Liam asks, exhaling quietly.  “I’m an idiot.”

Zayn watches him bite down roughly on his bottom lip, cheeks still stained a gorgeous pink.  He can feel the heat beneath the pads of his thumbs and Liam bats his eyes closed, discouraged.  His lashes look like tiny golden feathers weighing lightly against his cheeks and Zayn thinks, fuck, he wants to kiss those lips swollen.  He wants Liam to heal old wounds with rough hands, gentle palms, hot touches.

“I’m complete rubbish at these things,” Liam shuffles out, eyes still closed.

Zayn smirks, stutters on a breath when Liam tries to shake his head but ends up nuzzling Zayn’s nose instead.

“Like I am at dancing?”

“You’re a shit dancer,” Liam teases, blinking open those round eyes until all Zayn sees is a universe blanketed in chocolate.  “But I don’t mind.”

“Do you want to date me?” Zayn wonders, surprising himself with the way his voice floats on confidence and certainty.

“I want to do more than date you.”

Liam balks at his own words, Zayn chewing on a laugh, and Liam looks ghostly pale.  He looks beautifully broken and Zayn dreams of cooling Liam’s frustration with willing hands.

“Oh fuck, that was… that was too forward.  Honestly, I should just shut it before you – “

“Leeyum,” Zayn says with a rolling sigh, his mouth unconsciously quirking into a smile that he doesn’t think he can forcibly remove.

Liam’s thick fingers find their way into Zayn’s hair, toying with the product-stiff edges, the sweep of fringe that nearly touches Zayn’s forehead.  Fingers dance over the clipped sides, pulling at the ends until it stands a little taller.  His thumbs trace along Zayn’s eyebrows, hands shifting down until they rest on the material of his jacket – it’s a nice charcoal gray, breathable linen that he’s nicked off Harry because it doesn’t really fit Harry but it makes him feel important, relevant.

Zayn holds onto his smile, watching the way Liam’s eyes drift over Zayn’s mouth, the way his tongue wets his lips.  He wants to tell Liam how he loves the way the edges of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the sharpness of his jaw, the way his cheeks are actually soft and warm and memorable but he settles on whispering, “I’d like to see you again,” instead.

Liam chuckles, bright and relieved, and Zayn lets them stay like that with foreheads touching and words hidden behind their smiles.  It’s the kind of natural Zayn knows he won’t find in books and text and the millions of verses he’s read about destiny and fate don’t seem to add up to a moment like this.

**

Their first date – Zayn lingers on the _first_ halfway through their meal because, after looking across a small table at soft brown eyes, a ruddy smile, he knows he wants a _seventh_ and _fifteenth_ date somewhere in their history – isn’t one of those things he knows couples spend hours telling their grandchildren about.

Zayn, admittedly, is a bit nervous and Liam’s a blur of movements, even when he’s not speaking.  He’s jittery and there’s a sheen of sweat over his brow when he comes to pick Zayn up – they walk to the restaurant because, honestly, it’s not that far from Zayn’s flat and Liam doesn’t really own a vehicle or a license – that reminds Zayn of his first date when he was fourteen and trying to convince Lisa Westin that he was the coolest kid in their class.  Zayn’s a bit captivated at the way Liam’s dressed with his collared shirt looking expensive and starched, his jeans hugging his waist but still slinging low and his hair is riddled with product that makes it stiff and immoveable.  Zayn feels a little less in place with his leather jacket, the collar of his shirt stretched a little too low – he catches Liam’s eyes tracing over all of his tattoos throughout the night, even the ones decorating his collarbones – and jeans that are old and faded black but Liam makes an appreciative noise when Zayn opens the door and it’s enough to settle blush to his cheeks.

Zayn’s quiet even though Liam asks him dozens of questions about his childhood, the city, the things that Zayn loves and the things he hates.  He inquires about Zayn’s studies, nodding along like he understands Frost and the brilliance of Anne Rice but Zayn’s certain he doesn’t.  Still, it’s endearing in a clever way, the way Liam’s cheeks pink anytime Zayn compliments his smile.  Liam doesn’t say much about himself, a little about his job and how he’s filling in for his father right now but nothing more and Zayn’s left wondering where this boy comes from and what fractured pieces make him whole?

He likes to talk with his hands and rubs his chin often like he’s thinking everything out, a trait that Zayn grins at.  He’s still nervous and it shows in the way he stumbles over most of his words but he eases into something relaxed and calm halfway through a conversation about the new Captain America film.  It tickles Zayn, the way Liam keeps watching his lips, the pink of his tongue, the way Zayn fusses with his hair even though he knows it’s perfect – Louis spent an hour in the mirror with him and their hands slathered in gel and hair wax – and he wonders if maybe he’s Liam’s kryptonite, which sounds incredibly daft but he doesn’t think Liam would mind the comparison.

It’s somewhere in the middle of a dish that’s too spicy for Liam, but Zayn enjoys, and sips of green tea that Liam folds his hand over Zayn’s, fingers rubbing gently at Zayn’s knuckles.  Zayn looks up through his lashes, biting on a smile that’s diminutive and chaste, at their hands and something coils around his stomach.  Something warm and inviting spreads across his chest and he lets Liam’s hand hover there, ignoring the little look their waitress gives them like they couldn’t be more obvious.

He doesn’t let Liam pull his hand away until he’s paying for the check – Zayn wanted to split but Liam was _insistent_ – and he thinks about reaching out to hold Liam’s hand the entire walk home.  He settles on walking close enough that their shoulders brush every few steps and Liam’s smile washes over him under the cold blue gleam of the moon.

“You didn’t have to walk me home, y’know,” Zayn says when they’re standing for too long beneath the dull glow of a lamppost and on the first two steps to his building.

Liam nods quickly, bundled energy still creaking out the edges with a pushed up smile and crinkled eyes.  His hand keeps swaying at his side, brushing gently over Zayn’s and Zayn, fuck it all, reaches out just to hold it.  He doesn’t know if it’s the moon or the courage flaring up but he likes the way Liam’s fingers fit between his – perfect links in a chain.

“It’s what good gentleman do,” Liam says with the kind of tone that sounds obvious but still shy.  “My mummy taught me that.”

Zayn snorts at that, his bottom lip creased beneath the weight of his teeth.  “’m sure she didn’t mean it applied to walking a boy home.”

“You could get hurt out here.”

Zayn makes a face, brow lowered and lips puckered.  “I grew up here, Liam.  If anything, I should be looking out for _you_.”  He’s poking at Liam’s chest with his free forefinger, grinning when Liam pretends to look wounded and appalled at once.

“’m strong enough to handle that, thank you,” Liam declares and Zayn feels his heart – _stutter_ to a _thud_ – against his chest when Liam flexes an arm, muscles coiling and stretching the stiff fabric of his dress shirt.

Zayn tips his head back, admiring the waving light from above and the way it speckles over Liam’s face – like drops of glitter or sleepy stars.  It’s out of instinct – or pure mental breakdown, he’s sure – that his thumb traces the curve of Liam’s jaw and the tickling stubble that dusts his upper lip.

“This was nice.”

Liam hums, his cheeks a nice pastel pink that Zayn imagines painting against a fresh canvas.

“A bit magical, yeah?” Liam offers, rocking on his heels.

Zayn’s dizzy with the way Liam is… well, he’s _nothing_ like the lads Zayn’s dated before.  He’s nothing like his last girlfriend or that one chap who liked to take Zayn down to greasy burger joints for milkshakes and deep conversations about J.K. Rowling plot twists – he wasn’t much of a fan of _Harry Potter_ then but he sort of blames Nathan for his newfound addiction to the novels.  He’s soft but firm, young and wise, cute but oddly stubborn, and everything Zayn thinks he’d never find attractive in someone who was dopey and smiles way too much.

But Zayn likes this heat that rushes his heart, burns the lining of his stomach, and – as cliché as it sounds – weakens his knees.

He likes Liam, ridiculous smile and all.

“Not an awful first date,” Zayn teases, playfully shoving at Liam but refuses to unwind their fingers when Liam sways backwards.

Liam chuckles, low and sweet.  “You said _first_.”

Zayn hates the way blush tickles his cheeks, the way he has to duck his head to hide pieces of his smile.  He’s craving a cigarette, his bed, and a nice cuppa but he thinks he wants all three with a side of Liam attached.

“Or last,” Zayn sneers and his smile slips sideways across his face when Liam mocks him.

“You’d like to, again,” Liam says with a sting of confidence that’s almost arrogant but Zayn doesn’t believe Liam would know the definition of such a thing.

“Maybe.”

“I’d want to,” Liam says quickly, rocking forward on his toes and he’s closer.  He’s breaths away and, yeah, Zayn thinks about kissing him, hard.

“Me too,” he says instead of the words burning on the rim of his lips.  He breathes in sweet cologne – Liam smells like early summer and fresh cotton and something peachy – and the crickets roar out a symphony that sounds like something out of one of those cheesy romantic comedies Harry loves.

“I’d walk you up but,” Liam pauses, still so close, tongue swiping over his lips.  “Too soon?”

Zayn smirks, thinks nothing is too soon when he feels this lightheaded and his stomach seems to be auditioning for a role in the next Olympics.

“Possibly,” Zayn replies, softer still.  He lets Liam trace the line of his bottom lip with his thumb and his body is quicker than his mind because his tongue is flicking out, wetting the tip so Liam can smear saliva against his skin.

Liam shudders, mouth gaped and eyes so feral.

“ _There is no remedy for love but to love more_ ,” Zayn whispers, eyes flitted down toward Liam’s mouth and he’s leaning, weighed down by gravity.

“I’m sorry?”

Zayn shakes his head briskly, pulling back a little.  Liam’s fingers catch his chin, lift it and he’s whispering again, “Nothing.  Something by Thoreau.”

“Don’t know ‘im,” Liam admits, careful and slow and Zayn smiles at the way Liam looks sheepish when he leans in.  “But I’d gladly learn him if that means I can learn more about you.”

Zayn laughs quietly, goosebumps settling over his skin when Liam steps closer.  He moves with Liam, closer and closer and the world sits in silence as they look at each other.  They stare with soft breaths, the stars circling them high above and Zayn blames the way his heart flutters for the way he leans in.  He blames the fucking cosmos and the endless stories he’s avoided about love and its higher purpose.  The little excerpts from all his favorite authors about how this world is meaningless without it and the way that first kiss, destiny or not, determines so much.

Those thoughts disappear when Liam presses his lips against Zayn’s.  It’s sweet and crippling and Zayn falls into the way Liam cups the back of his head and leads him through this.  And he’s never let someone else dictate kisses or the way they affect him but he’s giving Liam full control.  He’s letting Liam take his trust and ball it into his hand, holding tight.

He remembers a song Harry played over and over last year in the midst of finals and, as Louis dubbed it, the Week from Hell right before the holidays – _Oh I was born to live without you but I’m never going to understand._   He tastes the salt on the edge of Liam’s lips when his tongue licks out, tastes the sweetness from the dessert and he thinks about nothing but Shakespeare and Vampire Weekend and how he’s not really breathing as much as he’s _surviving_ on Liam’s dead oxygen.

Just a small shift, the angle changing, and its lips, teeth, and countless stars burning bright behind his eyelids.  His fingers shake against Liam’s hip, everything going solid white and blurry when Liam smiles against his mouth.  The taste of syrup and Liam’s minty gum rolls against his tongue and Liam’s nipping at the edge.  He’s curling his fingers against Zayn’s skull – _Hold me in your everlasting arms. Looked up, full of fear, trapped beneath the chandelier that’s going down_ – and it feels right, their lips slotted like this.

It’s just a tease, the way Liam draws out soft patterns over his lips, before he’s pulling back with a grin and he whispers, “Incredible.”

Zayn thinks his professors would be ashamed of his lack of wordplay, everything articulate and well-taught dying off with his next few breaths.  He smiles back at Liam, thinks in verse rather than sentences and quotes lyrics instead of words in his head – _Hold me in your everlasting arms_.

“I can call you later on?” It doesn’t sound like it should be a question but it is on Liam’s lips and Zayn’s nodding before he can process it.

“Whenever,” Zayn says, his voice ragged and hoarse.  He laughs, watches the way Liam’s lashes brush against his cheeks and he wants to kiss Liam again, harder this time.  He wants to imprint his lips against Liam’s until they’re swollen and he’s _memorable_.

He wants to be a collection of chapters in Liam’s life, mid-story in bold and italics.

Liam takes a few shaky steps back and their fingers stay tangled together until Liam has to pull away, the tips still brushing when Liam reaches that final step.  It’s cheesy and over-romanticized but Zayn likes the way Liam’s mouth rounds into a smile, his own quirking until they look foolish like this.

“G’night,” Liam hums, still stumbling a little as he walks further off and Zayn nods at him, just an _until next time_ rather than _goodbye_ because goodbye feels so permanent.

He ducks inside, moving up those three flights of steps and his fingers are still shaking when he digs into his pockets for his keys and that pack of smokes he needs desperately.  The lock sticks – _of course_ – and he’s barreling into the flat without thinking that, yeah, it’s after midnight and maybe Harry and Louis will still be up.

They’re not.

The living area is shrouded in darkness, shadows chasing each other across the walls and over the furniture.  There’s a glow of blue light from the telly that wraps a soft blanket over objects, shapes, Louis and Harry curled around each other on the couch.  There’s a thick duvet pulled up over them, a forgotten bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.  He can spot Louis’ bare feet hanging out the bottom of the blanket – _The Rogue_ inked across his ankles and looking shiny and purple against his tan skin – and Harry’s nose is buried in Louis’ hair.  Clips of ivory shines over Harry’s soft cheeks, Louis’ hair silver against the darkness.

Zayn smiles, kicking the door shut and not even the clink of his keys dropping against the small end table by the door seems to stir them.  They’re passed out, clinging to each other like… well, like mates, maybe lovers.  Louis’ head is tucked into the crook of Harry’s neck and Harry’s ruddy lips are parted, breathing out little puffs of oxygen.

He wonders how much Harry begged Louis to settle onto the couch with him to watch one of Harry’s boring documentary films – this one on the French Revolution with images of black and white streaking across the screen.  Maybe Louis did it willingly, keeping Harry company instead of spending another night in the city with Eleanor.  He shakes his head, biting down on his bottom lip and kicks off his shoes next to the door, slipping sock-covered feet over the hardwood toward his room.  The white noise follows him and he glances over his shoulder when Louis makes a murmuring noise and cuddles closer to Harry, an arm automatically lifting and pulling Louis in like _shelter_ , _protection_ , the absence of touch being too much.

Zayn fits himself into the windowsill in his room, feet dangling on the side, upper half nearly outside to taste the cold air and the smoke filling his lungs feels just right.  He thinks about reviewing Tolstoy, living in the dream world that Beverly Cleary creates so poetically but he settles for the smoke and the rip of a cold September breeze instead.

He chews along his bottom lip, clothes stripped, and he’s just in a pair of joggers and thick socks now.  He grins at the sky, peaceful and serene and everything it was an hour ago when he was under it with Liam.

 _Liam_.

It freckles in his mind like little dots and speckles – the way Liam felt, touched, kissed, _breathed_.  He smirks, wide and casual, flicking ash from his cigarette as he watches stars chase away the darkness.  His phone buzzes in his palm and he tries to imagine its Ant or his mum or even Doniya but it’s not.  He clicks open the message waiting on him – he’s saved Liam’s name under _Leeyum_ and he finds it more than comical the way his heart thumps _right-left-center_ each time he sees it – and something swells uncomfortably inside of him.

He should be studying, catching a few hours of sleep before he wakes up early enough to spend a few saved up moments in the library before class.  He should focus on post-modern studies and the wicked vernacular of seventeenth century literature but he folds over with a small laugh and puckers a smile to the message – _you tasted like cherries & tony stark ;) – Li_

Zayn clings to his phone, thumbs over a few keys – _You’re my Pepper Potts xx Z_ – before quickly chucking his phone toward his bed.  He listens to the thump when it hits the sheets and he’s glancing at the moon with a thick smile on his lips.

All he thinks is _same Liam, same_ and it’s enough for a moment or two.

**

He loves this old couch when there’s books spread out around him, pages turned and dog-eared as a bookmark with highlighters and notebooks.  His feet are tucked beneath him and he feels completely comfortable, at home in sweats and one of Louis’ old Spider-Man t-shirts with his black-rimmed glasses on.  His hair is a mess and hidden beneath a beanie – Louis hates to cut on the heater any time before mid-October and Zayn doesn’t mind because it’s one less bill.  He sips at coffee that’s fresh and drizzled with just a touch of milk, no sugar.  It’s in Harry’s mug – the Hawaiian one his mum brought back from her honeymoon – and he sniffs at it every few minutes to remind him how good it’ll taste against his tongue when he finishes taking notes on Kipling.

Zayn’s still buzzing from his last cigarette, the one he had a half hour ago in between Socrates and the subtle nuances of H.G. Wells, and he doesn’t mind Louis humming around the kitchen or the way Harry loves to study while listening to the National through his earbuds – _Everything I love is on the table. Everything I love is out to sea._ He slurps loudly at his coffee to annoy Louis and taps his pen on his notebook until Harry’s chucking a pillow at his head and barking _‘anarchy, anarchy’_ like the troops of a sixties riot.  It draws up the kind of smile that sticks to his lips like fluffy cotton candy and they waste away another hour like this – lost in city decay and University wallows.

“How was your date?” Harry asks in the middle of a tea break and bars of melting chocolate.

Zayn quirks an eyebrow, bites down on the tip of his tongue with a smile.

“That good, huh?” Louis wonders, sliding into the room and fitting himself on the arm of Harry’s recliner.  He’s all Christmas pajama bottoms and a wrinkled _Thriller_ shirt – stolen from Zayn’s closet no doubt but they’ve lost count on _what_ belongs to _who_ nowadays – with frazzled hair that sticks up on all ends but still manages to look in place.

Zayn refuses to answer, fixing his glasses before burying himself into Kipling once more.  He doesn’t hide his smile, the one that tints his cheeks another color and makes him crave just one more cigarette to celebrate a victory.

“Fucking tosser,” Louis hisses with a grin, kicking up another pillow at Zayn.  “Do tell.”

“No,” Zayn says flatly and he’s proud he’s managing to hang onto some sort of resolute against these two.

“Details Zaynie,” Louis begs, leaning back a little until his spine is pressed to Harry’s shoulder.  “You know I have no life.”

“You have El,” Zayn argues, furrowing his brow,

Louis balks at him, traditional dramatization, before flipping him off.  “Doesn’t count.  We’re merely mates.”

“Who _fuck_ ,” Harry tags on, sounding slightly off but far from spiteful.  “On our lovely couch, in fact.”

“You twat,” Zayn barks, tossing the pillow back but Louis catches it, shrugging.

“Once,” Louis huffs out.

“And the floor more than a dozen times,” Harry adds, his lips wrinkling and he’s a little pale from the mental image.

“Fuck off Styles,” Louis groans, elbowing him before settling his fingers into Harry’s curls.  “My sex life is far from being that interesting.  It’s _complex_.”

Zayn snorts, shaking his head.  “I think the word you’re looking for is _complicated_ , mate.”

“And you’re looking for a new flatmate if you keep it up,” Louis warns but Zayn doesn’t believe him.  Louis’ threatened to abandon them at least two dozen times and that was within the first fifteen days of moving in last year.

“I don’t think things are working out between me and Cher,” Harry says, his voice dragging like he’s sleep-deprived and he’s gnawing at his lip like he’s thinking about it all.

“You’re still snogging that bird?” Louis asks, sounding taken aback and Zayn smirks at the way Louis’ eyes are wide and a little saddened.

Harry shrugs, offering up a small nod.  He leans into Louis almost forgotten touch, sighing.  “Sometimes.  But I think she’s bored with me and I’m bored with the chase.  I’m thinking about dating a chap.  Something new, yeah?”

Louis gasps and Zayn sputters out a laugh, biting down on his first two knuckles.

Harry grins, shaking out of Louis’ tightening grip.  “Think Liam has any guy friends?”

Zayn gives a half-hearted shrug, biting at his lip.  “I think Niall might have some interest – “

“The Irish chap?” Louis shrieks and Zayn leans back, arching a questioning eyebrow at the way Louis’ nearly clambering from his position next to Harry.  It settles Louis just enough that he’s hanging off the arm of the chair, left leg jiggling and fingers pinching impatiently at the cotton of his bottoms.

“Bloody fuck, Zaynie,” Louis hisses, lowering his head.

“He’s fun,” Harry remarks, ignoring Louis’ glare for a moment to smirk at Zayn.  “Might be worth it.”

“But I thought I was going to be your first shag if you ever decided to date dudes.  We pinky swore,” Louis says, doing his best to sound unaffected and hurt but Zayn thinks there’s something just beneath the layers of bravado that says otherwise.

“In a relationship with El,” Harry sings out, grinning.  He tips his head back, wide green eyes leveling Louis just that quickly.  “You love her.”

“True.  Very true,” Louis bites out, looking away and pretending the fraying strings from his shirt are just that interesting.

“Besides, you’re too bossy,” Harry laughs out, tickling his fingers up Louis’ side, slipping just beneath the bottom of his shirt to meet tanned skin.  “We’d never get along.”

“Would you let me tie you up?” Louis wonders, smacking away Harry’s hand but it remains steadfast on his hip.

“Maybe.”

“Pull your hair?”

Harry giggles, nodding.  “Possibly.”

“Drip candle wax over your nipples?”

Harry makes a face, scrunching his nose before he’s snickering out, “Definitely not.”

Louis shrugs, a small lift of his shoulders that’s barely visible.  “Yeah, you’re right.  It would never work.”

Zayn tunes them out, their endless banter becoming static and fuzzy in the background of his mind as he loses himself in _the Tempest_ for a moment, threading through the words for something calming.  His phone buzzes against his thigh, somewhere caught in the cushions, and he’s fishing it out as Louis draws small, imaginary smiley faces over Harry’s forearm with his finger.

It’s just that simple, a smile flicking over his slightly chapped pink lips, and he’s pretending this is nothing like Julia Roberts and _Pretty Woman_.  It’s stupid and he hates the way Liam attaches like smiley faces to almost every text but this one is simple and forward – _I want to date u proprly_.

He runs his thumb over the message ten times over, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and it’s stupid, really, how Liam gets underneath his skin in all of the warm places he’s never felt before.  It’s silly and mental and, he’s learning quickly, it’s perfectly Liam.  He types out a quick – _I’d like that massively_ – before tucking his phone back into the cushion and pretending not to wait for it to buzz again.  He jots out notes about Nora Roberts and the validity of Danielle Steele suddenly floods his mind like he can have just a piece of the life all of those lead characters had in those trashy romance novels Doniya used to read in the middle of the night when they were younger.

Liam’s just a distraction and, fuck, consider him incredibly out of focus.

**

“We can stop.”

Words are pressed – _tattooed_ , he thinks – into that soft skin just below his jaw where it’s ticklish and feverish and he’s sucking in short breaths to stop the room for spinning.  Fingers dance up the knobs on his spine, feeling heated and the pressure is nice through the thin material of his shirt.  He tips his head back, exposing just a little more skin and Liam’s giggling against his neck, huffing out thick breaths that leave Zayn’s skin damp.

Valiantly, clarity steps in for a few seconds of maddening revelation: _Stop_ is no longer an option, not one he’s willing to take.

The living room is blanketed in a cool darkness, somewhere between shadowy indigo and patterned blues.  The telly is blinking off a glowing azure that’s much brighter than that navy shade the shadows dance off the walls, the sides of Liam’s face.  The film still playing – a marathon that started with _Iron Man_ , collided into _the Avengers_ before it was _the Dark Knight_ and their favorite scenes from a pirated version of _Man of Steel_ Danny got for him before school started up – casts pretty colors across the furniture, over the hardwood floor.  Everything is white noise, heavy and thick in his ears like the sound of snowflakes crashing against a windowpane in the middle of the night.

Louis and Harry are out – Louis’ dragged Harry to one of his one-act plays though Zayn is certain Harry is not as unwilling as he put on moments before they left – and he suspects they’ll stop for tea, a quiet walk in the park that will resemble nothing like a date.  It’ll just be mates, arms around each other, laughing at trivial things that only they could find funny.  He knows they’ll be gone for hours, one of the main reasons he rung Liam up to come by when parts of him said he shouldn’t.  He shouldn’t want this.    And it’s not that he’s trying to hide Liam from them but, honestly, he’s not quite sure what this is.  It just _is_.

Lips, chapped but soft, hover over his skin, pressing out smiles and long kisses while fingers tangle in his hair, his own pulling at the thick material of Liam’s jumper.  He thinks in poetic words and hazy lines of Shakespeare while Liam’s tongue traces every curve of the Arabic etched along his collarbone.  He sighs out impatient breaths, desiring a cigarette and Liam’s hands on new stretches of skin.  His fingers drag lazily over Liam’s neck, tickled by the faint hairs at the bottom of Liam’s skull and Liam’s leaning in, pushing Zayn against the stiff back of the couch.  He lets Liam swallow him up in those strong arms, muscles flexed and binding, while he shuffles to gain some sense of balance even though he’s been falling for hours now.

Liam’s boots are kicked off by the door, his socks balled up beneath the couch.  That stupid snapback he wore – this one a vintage Superman one – is hanging off one of the arms of the recliner and the button of his jeans is undone, exposing the waistband of Captain America boxers.  Zayn’s teeth wake and sting against his bottom lip.  He can still taste the honey in Liam’s tea, the warmth of his kisses along the edge of his lip and his fingers are aching when they tug at Liam’s jumper.

“Where is this going?” Liam asks, lips rushing up against Zayn’s jaw until his teeth nip – gentle, gentle, harder now – right along the bone.

“This?” Zayn wonders, eyes sliding shut when Liam’s tongue slides over his lips, kisses too purposeful for Zayn to even remember when Liam’s hand side beneath his shirt to ride the planes of his stomach.

Liam chuckles, deep and dark, feathering kisses to Zayn’s lips before he pulls back.  “Not us.  ‘m not that forward.”

 _Aren’t you?_ Zayn wonders, everything coming out breathless when Liam finally pops open the button of his chinos.

“Then what?”

Liam hums, licking at Zayn’s canines, leaving Zayn’s lips wet and swollen.

“Tonight,” Liam adds, his voice rough.  He gives Zayn’s hair a gentle tug – Zayn hates how he lets out a little helpless sound or the way he actually _loves_ it – before he’s pressing kisses across Zayn’s cheek, against the faint stubble, over the lobe of his ear.

“Right now, you mean,” Zayn gasps out, Liam’s hand fitting into that small space to grip Zayn through his briefs.  He’s shamelessly hard and he feels the blush rise when Liam giggles at the thick, wet spot at the center of his briefs.

“Tonight, Zayn,” Liam whispers, his tongue flicking over the hoop earring.  “Me and you.  _Us_.”

“Us,” Zayn repeats, a shaky breath following and his fingers are wrapped tightly around Liam’s wrist, nails digging in when Liam palms him a little rougher.

“I can stop.  I mean, we’ve only been on three dates – “

 _Four_ , Zayn thinks with a wicked grin.  He wonders if Liam counts the time Zayn stopped by, late in the evening, at the construction site and they shared cups of coffee and chats about the brilliance of _the Age of Apocalypse_ saga with fingers twined and the sun setting the sky afire with oranges, bright pinks.

“ – and I could go.  I could totally leave because, I mean, ‘m not like this.  Not this forward.  ‘m respectful.”

Zayn nods, frantic and the room is dizzyingly hot with his thumb brushing over Liam’s birthmark, fingers scratching at the back of Liam’s neck.  He’s parading his lips across Liam’s cheek, down the curve of his jaw while Liam leans his head far back.

“I get it.  Your mummy taught you well,” Zayn huffs out, sparing a laugh as Liam jerks back, smiling sheepishly like he’s been caught.  Zayn blinks at him, teeth nearly breaking the skin of his lip as he paints his fingers over Liam’s soft cheek.  “I get it.  Now c’mere.  Show me the things she _didn’t_ teach you.”

Liam looks surprised but there’s still something dark in his eyes, the deepness setting his orbs a swirling ebony shade that’s all blown out pupils and something tragically desperate.  Zayn edges a hand over Liam’s, presses it firmer against Zayn’s throbbing cock and it’s the only invitation Liam seems to need before he’s hastily moving forward and crushing their lips together.

Its tongue and teeth and muffled moans as Zayn manages to drag Liam out of his jumper while Liam tugs on Zayn’s flimsy Henley.  It gets tangled around Zayn’s head and they’re laughing, forcing it off, meeting for kisses that taste like sweet nirvana and Dickinson and Jon Lennon songs.  His heart beats, full and aching, and he imagines Liam can feel it on the tip of his tongue as he leaves breathy kisses across his chest.  He drags his fingers through Liam’s hair, a sharp tug just to catch their lips on a quick swallow before he’s grinning, letting Liam proceed to drape his collar in hot bruises.

Even in the dark, he’s certain his skin shines purple and red and rusted with love bites.

Liam noses over the base of his neck, softer and painstakingly slow with his movements now, as Zayn’s fingers scratch along the surface of his shoulder, across the nape of his neck.  He’s lifting his hips a little when Liam tugs at the zip and those chinos are sliding off just so easily.  He feels bare and open, excited, with a ball of oxygen caught in his throat.  Every piece of Liam clings to his like sticky traces of honey and he loves the way Liam keeps peeking up through his lashes like _is this okay, should I stop, I want to fuck you right here if you’ll let me._

He tries to think of the millions of words he wants to trace over Liam’s sun-kissed skin with his fingers moving like ink against parchment.  It’s like the stars are crying and the night plays some hauntingly memorable melody against his temple – _Distant star. Don’t stop shining_.  He kisses gently at Liam’s swollen lips, thumbs playing along his cheeks and he’s weak but desperate with Liam’s hand fisted into his briefs now.  Just a small stroke of a thick thumb over the head, sticking to the leaking slit, and he’s shivering with everything go white, white, blank.

Liam’s jeans fall off in their stumble through the hall.  He kisses Liam quiet and pliant against one of the walls, knuckles dragging along the rough surface with his hands on either side of Liam’s head.  His feet tangle in his pants in the hallway, tripping but Liam’s strong arms steady him for a few more steps.  Liam’s boxers drag along the floor as he tries to kick out of them and kiss Zayn at the same time.  Their chests collide – _My heart’s broke but I’m still trying_ – and he can time the thump of Liam’s heart to the thunder of his own.

“Bed,” Liam gasps out, Zayn’s teeth leaving prints at the bottom of his neck.

Zayn nods, Liam’s fingers digging into his back, his spine arching and the scent of their sweat, their _need_ is heady in the air.

“Can’t see,” Liam laughs out, his palm sweaty against the curve of Zayn’s ass while Zayn’s fingers drag down his sides, curl around his hipbone.

“You want the lights on?”

“I want _you_.”

Zayn’s moan slides into a sigh, Liam’s fingers molding around his cock for a few soft tugs that are too loose.  Their noses bump, foreheads pushed together, and Zayn’s leaning up a little to make up for the height difference to fold his mouth over Liam’s, pushing his tongue inside.

Liam’s incredible at this – sucking cock.  He’s slow but purposeful.  He’s long licks around the head, tonguing the slit, folding his lips over teeth and hollowed out cheeks that have Zayn hissing rather than speaking the pages and pages of poetry about how Liam was meant to give head.  His hands grip at Zayn’s thighs, thumbs rubbing at the sensitive skin on the inside, and he sinks lower and lower like a head bowed in prayer.  His lips, still swollen from kisses, stretch and fit around Zayn’s cock perfectly.  He breathes through his nose, takes Zayn in deep like this isn’t his first time.  And Zayn hasn’t bothered to ask, honestly, how many other people Liam’s been with – how many _men_ , that is – but he doesn’t think he wants to know.  He doesn’t want to imagine Liam being this good, this perfect, this willing with anyone else.

He shakes at the way Liam moans around him, the vibrations quaking against his taut skin.  His stomach muscles tighten, toes curling, and he’s barely holding himself up on his elbows to watch Liam bob up and down.  His legs spread, desperately needy, and Liam’s tongue twists brilliantly along the underside of his cock, right against the vein – _Silent shore, see you waving. One last word but I can’t hear you_.

Zayn can’t help the way he lifts his hips, everything maddeningly unbearable because Liam just takes it.  He opens his throat, chokes just a little, before settling into it and he fucking takes all of Zayn like this is what he wants.  It spurs Zayn on just a little more, his hand molding around Liam’s head, keeping him still just to fuck into his mouth.

“God,” Liam gasps when he pulls off, firmly stroking Zayn while looking up through tear-sticky eyelashes.  He’s grinning, Zayn’s cock shining brightly under the pale streak of blue moonlight.  “You taste good.”

Zayn mewls, nodding, needing Liam’s mouth again and the wait is too long but Liam soothes him with little kisses around the head.  He flicks his tongue just beneath the crown and, fuck, Zayn gasps his name like it’s the only word he’s ever known.

It’s messy, the way the saliva sticks to Liam’s lips, to Zayn’s cock, the way Liam sinks back down to swallow Zayn whole.  It’s the kind of poetic injustice – he wants to recite Plato but he can’t think of anything as beautiful as this boy with his genuine smile and stretched lips – that Zayn will remember in the morning.

He peeks down through long lashes at Liam on his knees, looking up at Zayn with something painfully caring in his eyes, his fist wrapped around his uncut cock, flashes of pink in the dark.  It curls his spine, strips little spots of oxygen from his lungs, and fuck he wants that.  He wants Liam closer, inside, pushing out every little intake of breath.

“Li,” he says, _moans_ around a quick breath.  His fingers trace the shape of his cock, firm and pulsing, against Liam’s cheek.  It stings, rivers flooding the shore, and he’s suffocating for a moment.  “Li, please.”

Liam swallows around him, his tongue pressed to the slit again, and he’s nodding like he gets it.  Years spent learning a litany of words and all it takes is _please_ and pleading eyes to express things his lips can’t.

The lube is cold and sticky against his spread cheeks.  It’s some off brand he purchased months ago – you know, when wanking with a dry palm started chaffing and not feeling quite as pleasant as it used to – and the bottle is still pretty full, something he’s a bit proud of when he pushes it into the palm of Liam’s hand.  It’s somewhere on the floor now, probably leaking all over his favorite black Boyce Avenue shirt, while Liam pushes two fingers in and out of his stretched hole.

This isn’t his first time – but with Liam, it feels like everything is a first and he’s learning all over again – and the initial sting dies off quickly.  The thickness of Liam’s fingers, the way he uses them like magic and bright fireworks and trained, fuck, Liam is _trained_ in how to make every little aspect of sex incredible.  He’s biting on his lip, working the condom over Liam’s erection and the stretch of latex makes Liam look even bigger.  He’s aching and choking on moans, holding them in the back of his throat while Liam pushes higher, further, _deeper_.

“Fuck,” he gasps, shivering, while straddling Liam’s slightly spread legs.

Liam’s biting on the edge of his tongue, little specks of pink pushing past his lips, and he looks thoughtful.  He’s concentrating, stretching Zayn wider, like he wants this to be perfect.

Zayn doesn’t imagine it couldn’t be.

He’s shuddering on words like _a little more, deeper babe, right there oh fuck right there_ while bracketing his legs around Liam’s thighs.  He’s stroking messy fingers that are coated in lube over Liam’s sheathed cock and he hates how he rocks back into the touch with hitched breaths.  He hates the way, when he finally blinks his eyes open, Liam looks up at him like he’s something amazing.

He’s not.

The sheets are cool under his knees when he finally begs off Liam’s cock and lets Liam lead the dance.  Sticky fingers grip his hip, the other hand lining Liam’s cock up and he sinks down before Liam can breathe out _‘are you ready?’_   He hisses – okay, it’s been far too long – when the head pushes in, catching on the rim of his hole, but he sinks into his resolve.  He pushes down, fingers digging into Liam’s chest until he’s stretching wider along the shaft, everything fuzzy and hot.

They share a breath when Zayn bottoms out, eyes locked, everything owlish in the dark.  He’s lightheaded, Liam’s lips are parted, and Liam’s so fucking deep.  The head is pushing at something – _Watching white doves fly as you close your eyes_ – and it’s familiar.  Fuck, it’s _incredible_.  He’s shivering and twisting his hips for more and Liam’s eyes squeeze shut like this is heaven.

Like this is bliss and Zayn’s guiding him further into the white light.

His teeth gnaw at his bottom lip, the copper taste of blood leaking against his tongue, as he lifts up and settles back down.  It’s a slow movement, Liam’s cock dragging hot and wide against his muscles, before he’s finding a rhythm.  Its clichéd – _like riding a bike_ , Harry once told him though he doesn’t quite know what Harry meant by that – the way he settles back into this.  The groove, the pacing, the way his palms lay flat against the planes of Liam’s chest while he rocks back onto Liam’s dick.

“ _Oh_.”

Zayn gasps, loves the choked noise at the back of Liam’s throat as he rides him.  His thighs tremble around Liam’s hips, knees already raw and stinging.  His cock fattens up, Liam’s prick striking a fire against his prostate every time he falls back onto it, and it slaps loudly against Liam’s stomach.  The bed rocks with him, Liam bending his knees slightly to settle his feet on the mattress.  He pushes up with Zayn, fingers tightening on Zayn’s hips to hold him still.

“There,” Zayn heaves out, fingers digging into Liam’s skin.

There’s something determined etched into Liam’s expression.  His brow drops, mouth gaped, cheeks hollow.  There’s sweat slick against his face, over his chest, shining on Liam’s stomach – though Zayn thinks part of that is his pre-come leaking thick and heavy just above Liam’s navel.  The muscles in his arm flex, stretch his skin as he pulls Zayn down on his cock.  It hurts, the right kind of sting that’ll make Zayn wobbly and shaky when he tries to walk but he doesn’t mind.

No, he _encourages_ it.

He’s not like this in bed – pliant, _willing_.  No, he’s never been things like _soft_ or _gentle_.  He’s rough, aggressive, fucking someone into the sheets until they’re begging him for _more, more, more_.   He hates words like _submissive_ and _desperate_ because they’re sung with such negative conation.  But, with Liam, he’s different.  He’s… he’s incredibly willing.

The shadows crease their faces, hide the little touches of reverie and uncertainty tucked into Liam’s eyes.  Zayn’s slip shut, everything spinning sideways before Liam’s closing a fist around Zayn’s cock, stroking him through this.  His heart feels heavy on his tongue, weighing down the words – _And I don’t dare try. I don’t know how to say goodbye. Goodbye_ – and he listens to the thud of an old wooden headboard smacking against the wall.

Liam’s thumb works incessantly over the head of his dick, fingers curled around the base.  Just a little more, a smile spreading over Liam face like he knows.  He knows Zayn’s close, he knows he’s done this to him.  It curls a smile to Zayn’s own lips – _you little shit_ – before he’s rucking downward, squeezing his muscles until he’s holding Liam’s prick like a vice.

“Fuck me,” Liam groans, loud and unafraid.

Zayn smirks, leaning downward, lips edging over Liam’s.  “I will.  Next time.  A _hundred_ times.  I’ll fuck you until all you want is my cock in your arse and my lips in the morning, babe.  Trust me.”

Liam falls apart at that.  He shakes and he grips Zayn’s hip a little too tightly – _bruises_ , he thinks.  Finger-shaped bruises and burgundy skin – as he thrusts up into him.  He’s silent when he comes, sharp little breaths that are quieter than the rustle of wind outside Zayn’s window.  He rotates his hips, fuck, right along Zayn’s prostate and that little bundle of nerves sets off pretty orange sparks behind Zayn’s eyelids.

Zayn bites on his lip, raw and swollen, moans caught in the back of his throat and he’s coating Liam’s fingers in thick come.  He’s kissing at Liam’s parted lips, sliding his tongue inside until he feels numb while Liam sucks at it.  His cock pulses in Liam’s palm and everything falls out of place, the gray between black and white.

He’s breathless, smiling, carefully rolling off of Liam and he’s startled when he catches Liam licking the come from the tips of his fingers.  He’s panting and biting at the corner of his lip when Liam rolls toward him, anchoring him down with his weight before kissing him softly.  He tastes himself on Liam’s tongue and it’s salty, bitter, beautiful with Liam’s tongue easing him calm – _Keep holding on to let go. This is the ending I know_.

“You can’t go home,” Zayn tells him later on when they’re still messy with sweat, drying come, a fever from kisses they share between hollowed out breaths.

Liam tucks a few fingers under his chin, lifts it just to look into his eyes.  “But what about Harry and Louis?”

Zayn shrugs, revels in the way Liam’s fingers drag out _thank you_ and _let me stay_ over his chest.  He swallows, blinking up at Liam.  He’s adorable, propped up on his elbow with the side of his face resting on his knuckles.

“They sleep in late,” Zayn says, lazy and sleepy.  He strokes his thumb over the end of Liam’s nose, giggles at the way it makes Liam sneeze and laugh at the same time.  “They won’t know.”

“Do you want them to know?”

Zayn mulls over the thought for a beat, leaning further back into the wrinkled sheets, the fluffy pillows they’ve stolen from the head of Zayn’s bed.  They’re upside down, at the foot of the bed, limbs tangled together so they’re never too far apart.  He glances up at the ceiling, all of his white flags waving but, fuck, he’s not surrendering.

“They’re my mates,” Zayn whispers, his voice unsure.

“And what am I?”

 _Don’t ask me things like that_ , he thinks but it comes out quieter, “You’re _new_.  You’re… I want you to stay with me.  I want to wake up to you.  Is there a word for that?”

Liam blinks down at him, his expression soft but not completely muted.

“’m not very good with words,” Liam admits, inching in.

Zayn welcomes the kiss, dry and chaste, hanging onto it like a star cracking in the sky.  His bare foot rubs over Liam’s ankle, against his calf while Liam’s fingers slide over the rough of his stubble.  Their chests press together, hearts beating at different rhythms, and Zayn loves the way Liam smiles against his mouth like the last few seconds are forgotten.  Their lips chase words away and thoughts meander for a little too long.  He wants to tell Liam so much more but they fall quiet, hugging onto each other, and he thinks it doesn’t really matter.

Not yet, at least.

**

He thinks in bright colors and delicate pieces of Ella Wheeler Wilcox – _How does Love speak? In the faint flush upon the telltale cheek_ – and the soft call of birds drifting over the sky.  Everything feels new and gentle but warm and it clings to him day by day.  A smile licks at his lips, the taste of a forgotten cigarette long gone and making room for bits of cooling coffee, something like happiness on the tip of his tongue.

His mind is stained with thoughts of Liam, constant and unrelenting, and he wonders if maybe that’s why this all feels so… _auspicious_?  No, _incredible_.

Zayn pushes at the thick-rimmed glasses on his face, toys with his fallen hair – he’d forgotten the meaning of product when he rolled out of bed late this morning – until long fringe sweeps over his forehead.  He tugs his hoodie closer to his chest, dragging at the zip until the metal sounds chunky against his ears.  He’s flipping through pages of Lord Byron but thinking about the words of Twain – _‘Good friends, good books and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life’_ – while he drags his boots down Willowbrook Corners.  His jeans feel tight and the cold air snaps at him, unforgiving but perfectly autumn.  The leaves race at his feet, little specks of red chasing orange and honey-brown down the quiet street.

Harry texts him in broken lines about Niall and Cher and why he hates Louis today.  He smiles down at his phone, responding in poetic lines that he knows frustrate Harry.  Harry’s camped out in the school’s library, working on a paper, and Zayn won’t have to see that fumbled frown for hours, though he’s certain Louis will whine until his return.  They’re ridiculous but Zayn’s never credited either of them for their brilliant choices in life.

He smiles to himself, watching the sky.  It’s perfectly gray-blue, the kind that hangs in the air just before a storm or when the sun’s dipping off for a slumber behind the clouds.  The buildings shine a little thicker with glints of light banking off the tall windows and shiny bits of metal.  This city – _his city_ – feels like a breath of fresh air and new and he’s in love with it all over again.

It scares him, but only for a brief moment.

He grins when his phone buzzes in the back of his jeans, his teeth pressing firm against his bottom lip when he reads the name, and he’s still silently reciting Byron when he pushes the phone to his ear and sings out, “He’s not with me.”

“I’m not looking for that asshole you prick.”

Zayn snorts, eyes rolling promptly.  Of course Louis’ not searching every hollowed out corner of the city for Harry Styles – it’s still comical that, even when they’re not together, Harry and Louis remained linked.

“Liar,” Zayn teases, kicking at a few stray pebbles.  They roll down Harper Street, stopping just outside that little music store where Zayn can find some good vinyl by Hendrix and Biggie Smalls.

“Fuck off,” Louis spits out but Zayn can hear the smile in his voice.  “How’s your day?”

“S’good,” Zayn sighs happily and he fucking hates the way his stomach churns with butterflies and goosebumps rise up against his skin.

He’s not this pathetic, really.

“And your Lit paper?”

“Smashed it,” Zayn hums, his grin tipping a little higher.  “Theatre?”

“Fucking irritating and who the fuck knew you had to read so much to be an actor?”

 _Thespian_ , Zayn thinks fondly but he knows Louis’ not in much of a mood for sarcasm.  “Run lines with you later?” he offers instead, rubbing gently at the incoming stubble at the bottom of his chin.

“Whatever,” Louis pushes out like a _thank you_ and _you’re my favorite_.  “Get the little Irish fucks number off of your boyfriend – “

“He’s _not_ my boyfriend,” Zayn counters.

“ – for me and don’t you dare argue with me about poor Liam’s definable term of endearment with me.  You know I’ll win.  You’ve got big eyes and sappy smiles for that fit little fuck, admit it.”

Zayn ignores the last half, or he tries to because Harry and Louis have been harassing him for a week now about Liam and _who_ or _what_ he is to Zayn.  Honestly, Zayn hasn’t bothered to think long term, not with Liam.  He can’t afford to and that’s the story he’s sticking to.

He cards his fingers through his hair, his expression thoughtful.  “What for?”

Louis sighs, long and dramatic like Zayn should know.

“A date.”

“With Harry?”

Another sigh, this one rougher and stinging.  “With _me_ , you daft fuck.”

Zayn stops, boots rolling on the rocks, eyebrows dropping.  He curls his tongue over his lips, cradling the phone between neck and shoulder to slide his book into his shoulderbag.

“You have El – “

“We broke up.  Or didn’t.  I don’t know if we were really together.”

Zayn’s quiet, Louis too, and it’s just their breathing like _oh, this is where we are_.

“For you,” Zayn says slowly, fiddling with his glasses again, staring off into the barren streets that are usually crowded with cars and school children and scampering business types who need another strong coffee before a meeting.

“Yes.”

“Because you want to date ‘im?” Zayn asks, the words rough against the roof of his mouth.

“ _Shag him_.  I want to fuck his little brains out, Zaynie.  Keep up.”

Zayn gasps, nearly dropping the phone and he’s known Louis for too long now to be surprised.  But he is, thoroughly.

“Don’t give me shit about – “

“Is this cause of Haz?” Zayn asks quickly, narrowing his eyes.  Taxis streak by, blurs of yellow and the lights above are changing colors from emerald to scarlet to amber, nothing staying solid for too long.

Louis inhales sharply and, yeah, it makes sense.  It all adds up into calculated little ideas that never work out in Louis’ favor.  His lips twitch into a grin and he’s waiting, giving Louis a brief moment to fess up but Louis’ clicking his tongue against his teeth and it’s just a polite _fuck you_ before he’s grumbling something under a breath.

“Just get it.”

Zayn exhales loudly, irritated and suddenly the dead air doesn’t fill his lungs like it did minutes ago.  The world feels heavy and he doesn’t feel like being bothered but he doesn’t care.  He doesn’t care about Louis’ motives or Harry’s intentions or this stupid little game because he just wants another cup of coffee, a quick cigarette before he ditches off into the University courtyard to read over a few notes and focus on the way the sky goes from subtle blues into deep purples.

“Fine.”

“Love you,” Louis says with a grin, even though it sounds like _‘you better’_ and Zayn’s hanging up before Louis can utter anything else, palming his phone like he hates it.

He sighs lowly, dragging his fingers over the soft tufts of hair at the back of his head and the sun casts down thick, hot pieces of light against his shoulder and neck.  He hears heavy footfalls just behind him, probably another Uni kid late for class, but then the air is weak with scents of peach and mint and faded cologne.  He blinks at him, pushing down the smile that threatens to kiss his lips and he’s more in awe than shocked.  He’s fucking falling into a high because Liam’s smile is wide and dopey, bottom lip looking full and waiting, with a heaving chest like he’s run miles to get to Zayn.

Liam’s holding out a capped Styrofoam cup, the steam billowing up from the little hole cut out for sipping and there’s sweat sticking to his brow.  His cheeks are pink – Zayn’s not sure if it’s from the running or from him – and those brown eyes look honey against the rays from above.  His Iron Man t-shirt – a comic book style one, not Robert Downey Jr. – clings to every expanse of his chest, the wide set of his shoulders.  His flannel shirt is tied around his waist, hiding the peak of boxers with low hanging jeans.

He’s striking in a very ordinary way.

“I didn’t know how you liked it but I know that you don’t have class around this time.  I spotted you a few roads back and, fuck, this is really cheesy right?  Getting you coffee?”

He looks downright _ashamed_ , ducking his head with his hair looking soft and malleable against his head.  He’s smiling because Zayn thinks he can’t help it and he’s still holding out the cup of coffee like it’s a prize.

Zayn’s fingers brush over Liam’s knuckles as he takes the cup, the touch alone willing something tall and sharp against his lips.  He’s knocking his shoulder against Liam’s, dipping in close until he can breathe in Liam and they stay silent against the rush of the city in the background.  He looks at Liam through his lashes, sipping at the still hot coffee and he doesn’t know why but he thinks of Liam as a hero.

“You brought me coffee,” Zayn finally says, loving the taste of something rich against his tongue.

Liam nods, his brow lifted and forehead wrinkling.  He drags the toe of his boot over the ground, scrapping rocks and looking almost defeated.

“Too much?” he asks and Zayn can’t help the smile on his lips.

He shakes his head, leaning in again, curling his first two fingers into the belt loop of Liam’s jeans.  He tugs him closer, pressing a quick kiss to Liam’s cheek like _hello_ and _stop making me feel this way_.  A fucking prince in full-on armor, rescuing Zayn when he doesn’t need it.

At least, he keeps telling himself that.

“Did you leave work early for this?” Zayn wonders, a tinge of guilt rounding his belly.

Liam ducks his head, rubbing at the nape of his neck, hip checking Zayn before shaking his head.

“Got out early.  Waiting on contractors to approve an extension of the west wing and, really, we hadn’t much to do today.  Sat out much of it, trying to work out property lines and shit,” Liam admits lowly, his eyebrow crinkling because it’s _business, business, business_.

Zayn nods along, sneaking little glances at the way Liam curls his fingers against Zayn’s jeans, feet shuffling until they’re pushing at Zayn’s like he wants to get closer.

“Do you have to be off?  Studying?”

 _Yes_ , Zayn thinks but he doesn’t speak it.  He reaches down, strokes his fingers over the back of Liam’s hand like _it’s okay_.  They’re shy about this – the little touches, the acknowledgement that, yeah, they like each other.  They honestly _like_ each other.

“Later,” Zayn whispers, taking a few more quick sips of the steaming coffee before it turns cold.  “I was just clearing my head.”

“From what?”

 _From you_ , he thinks, biting on the tip of his tongue.  The words settle at the back of his throat and he shrugs, pretends like the thoughts don’t exist even though they plague on him nightly, daily, every second he breathes in oxygen and breathes out Liam.

“Nothing,” he says against a small release of air, fingers flexing at his side now instead of over Liam’s skin.

Liam nods, shuffles inward, waning like he doesn’t know if he’s too close.  He’s not but Zayn doesn’t give off the kind of vibe.

Liam looks around, horribly shy and thoughtful like everything isn’t making sense before he’s clearing his throat and sighing.  Something like a smile slides lazily across those full pink lips and Zayn can hear Harry’s music in his head – _You gave me magical, I gave you wonderful. Cut that invisible chord or I’ll starve you of what’s understandable. Let’s make immeasurable moves to the left or the right but not central_ – before he’s narrowing his eyes at Liam, confused.

“I want you to show me the city,” Liam says, proud and bright.  “Show me _your_ city.”

Zayn blinks at him for a beat, puckering his lips.  He sips at the coffee, a constant reminder that Liam did this for him so he sort of owes him, right?

“The city,” Zayn repeats like a question but it’s not.

Liam nods, his grin thickening like honey – _Let’s make this biblical._   He tips up his chin, gleeful, before he adds, “’m not from around here, remember?  And you’re always talking about how fantastic this place is.  How much you love the city.  ‘s like home, right?”

Zayn smirks because Liam remembers – in the dark of the living room, Liam’s lips along Zayn’s hairline while Zayn went on and on about the coffee and the bakery and the taverns and just the air of this place.  He bites along his lip, leaving it raw and aching, and smiling is something he’s fighting against.

The sun is bold and dense in the sky now, glowing off of Liam’s skin.  He looks weak and nervous but Zayn finds it charming – something Harry Styles is not, no matter how much he protests.

“Okay,” Zayn says quietly, chuckling at the way that single word sparks smiles and joy across Liam’s face.

Zayn turns a little, Liam moving up next to him until they’re shoulder to shoulder.  His foot lifts to move but something warm slides over his hand.  He glances down at Liam linking their fingers, intertwining them until Liam’s holding his hand and it looks… _natural_.  Disturbing but completely natural.

He looks up, awkward and concerned, and Liam’s rubbing the back of his neck again, weary.

“Is this not proper?” Liam asks, fingers already starting to loosen around Zayn’s.

Zayn pulls in a breath and he hasn’t really thought about it.  In fact, he’s never done it, with a _lad_ at least – _Baby if you could, would you go back to the start? Take any fresh steps or watch it all fall apart, again_.  This little public display with small crowds of people starting to pass them, look on as they hold hands on a street corner like… _lovers_?

No, not that.  They’re not that.  They’re… he doesn’t feel like defining it just yet.

Just yet.

Zayn swallows, hard, before he squeezes Liam’s hand.  It’s a small gesture but it has Liam shyly smiling, something Zayn mirrors, before he’s curling his fingers around Zayn’s again.  And they stand like that, swaying with the breeze with their hands clasped and every eye looking at them curiously.

It beats like Hemmingway and Zayn thinks this is proper.  This is the sort of thing you do with a lad you like.  A lad you might be, well, falling for.

It’s absurd how hard his heart beats at the thought of that and he schools his face before all of his secrets are exposed.

“We’ll start with Baker’s Mills and work our way from there, yeah?” Zayn suggests, brushing his shoulder to Liam’s.

Liam nods quickly, sucking his bottom lip in behind white teeth.  His cheeks are flared pink, eyes acutely adoring, and Zayn ignores the way that makes it harder for him to swallow.

“And I’ll take you for a proper cuppa on campus and you’ll sit with me while I read Keats and study Sophocles?” Zayn wonders, starting up a slow walk that Liam cautiously follows, stride for stride.

Liam smiles, warm and elated, and Zayn doesn’t bother to work out how that makes him feel lightheaded, incredibly at peace – _Let’s make this biblical and hang from our invisible chords_.  He merely guides Liam down a few side streets with the sun streaking their backs and smiles coating their lips, Zayn pointing out every little vein of this city because it’s _home_.

And Liam’s hand in his is just the same, except a little more cozy and new.

**

Zayn stopped having sleepovers when he was twelve and Ant was no longer disillusioned by the idea of reading comic books near flashlight in the makeshift fort his father built out of thick duvets, couch cushions, fluffy pillows, and his mum’s favorite sheets.  He learns the meaning of _distance_ and, begrudgingly, _maturity_ because Ant started liking girls loads more and Danny didn’t really care for playing hide and seek in the dark corners of his basement anymore so he falls into a typical near-teenage slump of reading books in the dark, speaking quietly with imaginary friends who still _get_ him.

It doesn’t necessarily scar him but, somewhere in the peak of teenage confusion, he realizes he’s grown accustom to distance and separation rather than actually _liking_ the feeling.

Liam’s clearly never gone through that stage because he takes to staying over at Zayn’s at least three nights a week now – mostly near the weekend when he doesn’t have to be up before the sun streaks the sky to start work on revamping parts of the half-built orphanage – and Zayn stops minding it so much when he realizes he actually likes waking up to a pair of strong arms locked around his waist and chapped lips brushing idly at the back of his neck.  Maybe he likes the way Liam’s cold feet brush up against his ankles in the dark or the way he sometimes wakes up with his head on Liam’s slow rising chest, trying to hide his blush when he catches Liam watching him sleep.  He’s sort of in love with the way Liam leaves behind a toothbrush – typical and romantic comedy fluff that he hated when he was younger – and the way he licks into Liam’s yawning mouth when the sun’s still climbing against an earnest blue backdrop.

He’s stopped sneaking Liam in after those first few nights, careless about the way he kisses Liam goodbye in the dark of the hallway with the flat’s door hanging wide open.  He grins at the way Harry and Louis immediately tease him when he’s yawning and scratching at his tummy because there’s pretty little burgundy marks scattered over his collarbone and chest.  Somewhere along the bliss and complete confusion, he invites Liam over when Harry’s still awake watching documentaries while Louis replays scenes from his classes, a little shyer with his smile as he tangles his fingers with Liam’s and leads him into his bedroom.  He’s polite about the way Harry’s wide-eyed and Louis’ mouth is gaped, sighing out introductions that lead to mindless questions from his mates.  Liam doesn’t really answer them but he’s so fucking charming and sweet and endearing that Louis seems to forget he asks Liam about the size of his cock and Harry’s not really looking for a reply when he asks Liam about whether he knows anything about the pyramids of Giza or the French Revolution.

The sun weighs against the sky like a fireball dropping towards the earth, painting the scenery a bright tangerine with long streaks of fluorescent pink and rippling plum.  It’s deep into the evening, the air outside a strident cool that rushes over his skin.  He sits in his windowsill, legs dangling inside, an arm hanging out to feel the flash of something stiff against his forearm as he takes meditative puffs of a fag.  The smoke curls outward, getting caught in a breeze that drags up the smallest of smiles over his pink lips.

He can hear Harry’s repetitive clicking pen on the other side of his bedroom door, Louis playing Drake on low as he runs lines for some audition he has on Friday – _It’s my birthday, I’ll get high if I want to. Can’t deny that I want you but I’ll lie if I have to_.  The corners of his mouth quirk a little, eyes scanning over Liam as he sits cross-legged on his bedroom floor, reading through one of Zayn’s thick textbooks and thumbing through a recently downloaded app on his phone that teaches him new words – Zayn will learn to love such words as _derivative, accost, vernacular, lascivious_ like their brand new.

Liam’s head is bowed, golden-brown hair looking utterly soft and Zayn wants to drag his free hand through it.  He’s got that awed smile on his lips, teeth nipping at the edge of his plump bottom lip with a bare chest and a pair of joggers on.  Zayn’s eyes trace the _‘everything I ever wanted but nothing I’ll ever need…’_ on the underside of his forearm as Liam turns another page, whispering – _‘Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined.’_

Zayn takes in another shallow puff of smoke – _I know you’ve been hurt by someone else. I can tell by the way you carry yourself_ – and he’s smiling when he exhales the blue cloud, Liam entranced by every highlighted word of text that Zayn’s probably read over a thousand times now but still just doesn’t grasp.

“Tell me about Wolverhampton,” Zayn requests after another breath of smoke, knitting his brow together when Liam’s head snaps up.

Liam blinks at him, docile and childlike, before he’s rubbing nervously at the back of his neck.  He’s leaning back, resting his weight on the hands lying flat on the floor, tipping his head back until it rests against Zayn’s bed.

“Like what?”

Zayn shrugs, rubbing idle fingers against his own bare chest.  He sniffs, another drag of the cigarette before he’s saying, “Everything.  Your childhood.  The places you’d go.  Your school.”

Liam smirks, hiding something under the layers and Zayn thinks in lyrics – _I’ve loved and I’ve lost_.

“Not much to tell, honestly.  It’s a small place, not much to do.  School was, well, _school_ I s’ppose,” Liam says, his lips curving into something delicate.  “Andy was me best mate back home.  Still is.  We’d climb trees together, have me mum worried for hours when we’d walk the back woods and pretend we were soldiers or superheroes.  Just a couple of blokes looking for a good time, honestly.”

Zayn grins, tries not to imagine Liam dressed up as Spider-Man, maybe Batman for Halloween or the way his parents probably frosted the windows and hung lights all across the roof during the holidays.

“Get in trouble much?” Zayn asks, a curious glint to his smile.

Liam laughs, loud and unabashed.  “ _Loads_.  Andy was quite ace at finding awful things for us to do to the other kids.”

Zayn nods, thinks of Ant, Danny, and smoking off in burnt down buildings with busted windows.

“Girls?”

Freckled blush highlights Liam’s cheeks, his head ducking.  “A few.”

Zayn wants their names, wants to know are they friends on Facebook, if they still stay in touch.  He toys with the product-stiff ends of his hair instead, stubbing out his cigarette against the side of the brick building before the breeze sweeps over his skin.

“Any boyfriends?” Zayn hums, hopping back into the room, letting the window stay cracked.

Liam’s teeth are ruthless with the way they attack his bottom lip, gnawing and leaving it swollen and red.  He looks up through blonde lashes, shaking his head.

“None, really.  I mean,” Liam swallows a deep breath, sighing as he picks at the edge of a page in the book.  “I’ve never really, y’know?  Not before you.”

Zayn blinks at him, eyes large and owlish as he pads over the cold hardwood.  He slides down onto the ground next to Liam, tucking his feet into Liam’s lap and Liam doesn’t seem to mind at all.  His thick fingers roll over the bones in Zayn’s foot and, fuck, all he hears is white noise and _‘not before you.’_

“’m your first?” Zayn chokes out, trying to sound stronger than he feels.

Liam giggles, shaking his head.  “Not like _that_.  Just my first, well,” he hesitates and he’s biting at his lip again.  Zayn wants to make him stop, offer the last beats of his own confidence for Liam to cling on to.  “You’re the first chap I’ve _felt_ something like this for.”

Liam’s fingers trace the inside of his foot, right along the arch, and they sit like that because Liam looks a little scared from his own admission and Zayn, fuck, he doesn’t know what to do with it.  It’s sweet enough that he wants to kiss Liam silly but it’s too much.

Liam’s just a boy, just a distraction.  He has far more important things to focus on.

“Incredible Hulk or Thor?” Zayn asks instead of the real questions like _are you falling for me, if I kiss you like I can’t help it will you stay_ , or _do I suck your cock better than the girls before me?_

A chuckle breaks through Liam’s lips and it goes from there for a moment, exchanges about how horrible the Fantastic Four films were and the way they’re both still breathless over Heath Ledger’s Joker.  Zayn slides between the divide, scooting closer until they’re shoulder to shoulder with Liam’s fingers sliding between Zayn’s, getting tangled in his hair until dull nails drag over Zayn’s scalp.  Little chats about Daredevil and the promise of a better Green Lantern film in a few years and Zayn’s unwilling to admit he reads poetry off that honey color in Liam’s eyes or the pink of his lips.

“What about your sisters?” Zayn asks a little later when they’re both leaning against the frame of Zayn’s bed with legs tangled and textbooks pushed away.

Liam freezes, everything becoming stiff and smaller, so small.  His lips tug downward, eyes dropping and Zayn remembers his face looking pale and ghostly like this after reading _the Legend of Sleepy Hollow_ for the first time.

Zayn feels sick, cold when Liam carefully pulls his hands away, buries them in his lap rather than Zayn’s hair.  He’s nipping at his bottom lip, a bird with a broken wing and it reminds Zayn of the times he’s tried to dig just a little deeper, search for a little more about Liam.  The hesitation is brick wall-thick, Liam’s shoulders slumped forward and his head is bowed again like a prayer.

He doesn’t know why, but it aches all along Zayn’s bones, this insecurity and flashes of vulnerability like he can’t let Zayn in.

He wants in and that’s stupid because Liam’s not _forever_.  He’s just a _right now_.

“They are,” Liam starts, tentatively reaching out to etch warm fingers over the yin-yang on Zayn’s arm, over gold skin until Zayn shudders with the touch.  “I don’t like talking about ‘em, yeah?  It’s just.”

Zayn doesn’t know why but it’s enough.  It’s turning his blood cold, the way Liam looks defeated, and he doesn’t try to stop himself.  He surges forward, kissing Liam helpless and breathless just to swallow the words Liam can’t get out.  He licks into Liam’s mouth, tilting his head a little to find the right angle and Liam sighs like a moan against his lips.

He’s grinning, utterly proud and affectionate, when he pulls back and Liam’s taking in sharp heaving breaths like, fuck it all, he’s never had kisses like that before.

Liam wrinkles his nose, thumb over the _‘Bus 1’_ tattoo along the side of Zayn’s hand.  “You taste like an ashtray.”

Zayn snorts, pressing forward to push their foreheads together.  He narrows his eyes at Liam, cocky, before whispering, “Then don’t kiss me anymore.”

“ _You_ kissed _me_ ,” Liam says, strangled and still a little weak.

“Then I’ll refrain from such things,” Zayn huffs, a grin still curling over his lips.  His thumb catches on the stubble of Liam’s jaw, Liam’s lashes fluttering against Zayn’s cheeks.  “I’ll quit.”

“I don’ want you to.”

Zayn grins, wide and goofily, and he lets Liam kiss him this time.  He lets Liam push firmly against his mouth like a drug, addiction inevitable because Liam tastes like something sugary and acidic like Coke.  His tongue flicks like a hurricane and Zayn’s teeth mark Liam’s lips this time, leaving it swollen and begging for healing.

“You’ll tell me, one day, yeah?” Zayn asks, soft and short.

Liam looks contemplative, still fragile and uncertain.  “Maybe.”

Zayn doesn’t argue against that.  He doesn’t give himself time to even consider it because Liam’s here now and thinking about what the future might mean seems ridiculous.  He doesn’t dream in pretty white fences, green grass, wholesome family portraits and sharing a dog in their two-story house.

He folds his hand into Liam’s, calloused fingers and soft palms, before giving it a small tug.  He looks up through his lashes, whispering, “C’mere.  Come with me.”

Liam looks up him curiously as Zayn stands, still pulling, still pleading with his eyes and the width of his smile.  The hesitance still floats thick in the air but Liam’s eyes burn like _I trust you_ and Zayn hums along to the Johnny Cash that Harry’s blasting through the stereo in the living room – _And you could have it all; my empire of dirt. I will let you down. I will make you hurt_ – as he leads Liam towards the door, through that narrow hallway that’s just a mild division between rooms.  They duck through shadowy spaces and Harry and Louis are far too distracted with each other to notice them.

He catches Louis’ voice as he twists the knob to the last bedroom at the end of the hall – _‘Be the Brutus to my dear Caesar, Harry, please.’_ – and he laughs quietly at the way Harry saws out a whine that sounds a little too affectionate to be annoyed.

When he flicks on the light to the room, the desperate glow of the fading off sunset cast shadows brilliantly over multi-colored walls.  It’s the room with the best view of the city, his little spark of inspiration within a scattered mind, and the noise of traffic outside seems dull compared to Liam’s gasp.

There’s tubes of paint all over the floors, cardboard and white canvas and shredded material from that tent Harry bought for them to go camping in last summer – Louis doesn’t do nature and Zayn isn’t quite fond of the thought of being hacked off by some serial murderer in the middle of the night.  Cans of spray paint line the walls, a few undone pieces leaning against them and there’s three different sketchpads, all open with various stages of some illustration, laid across the ground.

A single leather couch rests against the wall closest to the window, most of it undone and not yet touched while the other walls are spray painted with various characters and creations of his own.  Everything is black and purples, greens and navy blues with highlights of yellow and manic strips of red.  There’s wicked smiley faces and that large, sick rendition of Batman he did against one of the walls that’s a bit ominous and entrancing.

He keeps his fingers tangled with Liam as he guides him through the room, rubbing at his chin with a smile tucked against his lips.  He’s sheepish about showing all of this off because, honestly, he doesn’t even let Harry and Louis in here.  He makes them keep their distance though they’re always asking what he’s doing in here and if they can help.  But it’s _his_.  In this crowded world of policies and expectations and over-glorified rituals, this small corner is his.

“This is,” Liam pauses, running his tongue over his lips, still wide-eyed and shocked, “amazing.  It’s _sick_.”

The grin tickles his lips and he finds himself rubbing nervous fingers against the nape of his neck like Liam so often does.  He tips his head back some, trying to bite back the way the corners of his mouth curl and he’s scraping blunt nails along his scruff.

“It’s gangster, yeah?” Zayn teases, running his fingers absently over the small Green Lantern symbol that’s almost swallowed alive by a mural of crazy faces and spiraled colors on the wall.

Liam nods quickly, blinking at Zayn before smirking.  “Incredible.”

“Yeah it is a bit – “

“No,” Liam says, brisk and stern, tugging Zayn a little closer.  “ _You_.  Incredible.  You are.”

The blush threatening to lick at his cheeks makes his eyes drop – Liam’s are too full, brilliant – and he looks at their bare feet so close, toes kissing.  He likes the way Liam’s joggers hang over the base of his feet and the way his own jeans are tight around his thighs.  Paint is speckled and dry around them on the floor and he thinks about sketching out the way the sunset glows purple and a hazy pink behind Liam.

He lets Liam explore the room a little while leaning against one of the walls, taking in Liam as Liam admires each little sketch and colorful drop of paint.  Liam’s in awe of the various Batman markings – Zayn’s in awe of Liam but he settles his breathing enough that his heart doesn’t hitch every time Liam flicks a smile his way – and he runs his fingers over the sketches in Zayn’s books like Zayn’s mastered the subtlety of art and its meaning.

“I quite fancy this one,” Liam says, his back to Zayn as he points toward the small canvas leaning against one of the walls.

It’s a simple, nearly finished spray painted piece of the emblem from Captain America’s shield.  The ivory from the large star in the middle, pieces of the red and blue circles bleed into each other, dripping down the painting like the colors are washing away.  The piece feels forgettable – he drew inspiration after reading _the Winter Soldier_ – but Zayn thinks he likes the way Liam’s grin grows larger and larger the longer he looks at it.

“Didn’t take you for a Steve Rogers enthusiast,” Zayn teases, circling his arms around Liam’s chest from behind, resting his chin on Liam’s shoulder.  He breathes in mint and sunshine and Liam.

Liam snorts, reaching back to tangle his fingers in Zayn’s fucked out quiff, grinning warmly.

“Tell me things,” Zayn whispers against the skin of Liam’s neck, tongue flicking out to trace over his birthmark.  His fingers scratch at Liam’s chest, slide down until they feel downy hairs that lead down to the waistband on Liam’s pants.

“Like what?” Liam asks, eyes sliding shut as Zayn’s teeth nip at his shoulder, the tendons between collar and muscle jumping.

“Doesn’t matter,” Zayn breathes out, dragging his stubble over Liam’s bare shoulder.  “I want to know so much.”

He hates the way he sounds fond and needy and _infatuated_ , that’s the word.  He hates the way his voice gives him away and he’s nosing along Liam’s neck, rocking slowly until Liam’s breathing is hitched and stuttering.

Liam reaches out, dips his fingers into something, coating them before he’s turning in Zayn’s arms, smirking.

The brush of paint is cold, freezing, and Zayn jumps at the touch but doesn’t run away.  He lets Liam’s fingers slowly circle his chest over and over and over, smudged and perfectly inaccurate.  He leaves behind a large blue stained circle that glows wickedly against olive skin and Zayn’s wrinkling his brow at Liam.

Liam bites down on his lip, doing little to hide his smug grin.  He ducks his chin some, leaning in to lick a long stripe over Zayn’s collarbone.  His finger continues to round the edges of the circle he’s left behind in the middle of Zayn’s chest, the paint smudged over a pair of red lips and angel’s wings.

“Want you to be my Iron Man,” Liam whispers against the underside of Zayn’s jaw, teeth dragging.  Fingers grip his hip, pulling Zayn closer.  He bites at Zayn’s bottom lip, still smirking like he _owns_ Zayn in this moment – Zayn wouldn’t dare argue otherwise – before he adds, voice dropping deeper, “Want you to show me what those few lads before you didn’t.  Want you to own me.  Make me fall in love with your cock.”

Zayn shudders, fisting fingers into Liam’s thick hair, smashing their mouths together.  He licks off a moan, traces the roof of Liam’s mouth, desperate and clawing.

Liam pulls back with a wet kiss that echoes off the walls, tugging at Zayn’s jeans until the denim burns against his skin.  He’s rough and carnal, the sort of uncaged monster Zayn needs.

“Make this better than the rest of ‘em, babe,” Liam says huskily with heavy breaths and hard kisses dropped along Zayn’s neck.  “Right here.  Need you inside me.”

Zayn curls his tongue around a moan and they quickly kick out of jeans and joggers.  They kiss like it’s urgent, touch like their skin is on fire, cling to each other in the kind of way that aches in the morning.  They wrestle out of their pants, kicking them aside before tumbling to the hard floor like it’s a valley of pillows.

They’re laughing against each other’s mouths when they fight for a position – Liam on top, on their sides, Zayn pressing Liam down into the hardwood while interlocking their fingers and holding Liam’s hands high above his head.  Liam’s breathless, Zayn eager, when they kiss a little slower with their cocks trapped between their stomachs.  There’s a fire in his stomach when Liam licks into his mouth, all wicked promises and dirty thoughts, as he grinds down against Liam like the stars behind his lids are threatening to end him before they start.

He flicks his thumb against Liam’s foreskin, dragging it back, pink head peeking out.  Liam tugs on his cock in response, hiked up grins and heavy laughs as Zayn’s head jerks back to swallow a moan.  He scrapes his name across Liam’s neck with his teeth, using his knees to spread Liam’s thighs apart and they’re not practiced like this but Zayn licks at his lips and plays naïve until Liam groans and tells him there’s nothing to be shy about.

He doesn’t have lube or a condom and he settles for Liam sucking his fingers wet while he goes down on Liam, refusing to choke when Liam’s hips rut up and the head pokes at the back of his throat.  Liam doesn’t seem to be put out by the idea that, yeah, they’re going to do this _bare_ and on a dirty floor with paint scattered and splashed around them.

No, Liam says _‘more, more, fuck me’_ against his ear when Zayn works his middle finger inside of him, licking out symbols over Liam’s hip with Liam’s cock poking his cheek.  Liam keens like this isn’t his first time but he’s tight like he’s never really done this.  His muscles clench down around Zayn’s second finger, a willingness in his eyes that refuses to cooperate with his body but his lips are parted for silent gasps and Zayn fingers him loose.  He thumps a fist against the floor, the noise echoing against painted walls and Zayn grins against Liam’s hipbone, teeth leaving behind bright red marks.

“Just,” Liam hisses, legs spreading further, inviting, and he’s clutching onto dead air when Zayn curls his fingers just a little – _right there_.  Liam shivers, eyes rolling back and he’s reaching out for something that’s not there.

“There, babe?” Zayn teases, licking a long stripe up Liam’s cock, suckling the head until Liam’s precome is thick and wet against his tongue.

Liam nods quickly, bearing down on Zayn’s fingers and he’s rocking on those digits, unaware when Zayn slips a third one in for good measure.

There’s a hollowed out promise on Liam’s lips when Zayn crawls up to kiss him, spitting into his hand to coat his cock shiny and wet.  He’s mouthing along Liam’s jaw, hissing at the way Liam’s nails drag down his back.  He’s against Liam’s ear – “I can go slow.  Make you beg for it.” – and Liam’s whining, irritated and unfocused.

Zayn rubs the head of his cock around the wet rim, over the puckering hole until Liam’s playfully punching his arm – _he wants this, he wants you_ repeated over and over in his head – and he lines himself up with thoughts of wintery glow and Sparks by the fireplace.

Liam stiffens when he starts to push through the ring, tightening up, thighs trembling until Zayn’s smaller frame is blanketing him.  He settles his lips against Liam’s, kissing away fear and initial regret to make way for something electric as he sinks further and further.  Liam’s lips freeze, his body going lax and Zayn takes that as a sign to slide all the way in until he’s bottoming out and the only word Liam knows now is _Zayn_.

“Don’t treat me like glass,” Liam warns when Zayn’s throbbing inside of him, waiting.

It scars Zayn, a flicked up grin on Liam’s lips like he wants it more now that Zayn’s so fucking deep.

Zayn wants to be careful and hesitant and perfect for Liam because Liam does this to him.  He makes him want to be better at _everything_ and blush burns his cheeks when Liam gnaws at his lip and nods at him.  He’s giving permission, pushing back against Zayn’s cock until Zayn feels the stretch along his firm flesh.

“C’mon babe,” Liam whispers when Zayn leans down again, lips brushing but never locking, “I can take it.”

Pride folds and Zayn’s first few thrusts are a bit off – maybe it’s been too long since he’s been on this end of a good shag but he remembers the technique, the rules all too well – but he finds a rhythm that sets everything ablaze.  He rocks his hips quick and purposeful like a melody – _There’s been a lot of talk of love but that don’t amount to nothing. You can evoke the stars above but that doesn’t make it something_ – and curls his fingers around Liam’s over his head.  He looks down into dark, heavy brown eyes that are glittery like stars chasing the moon and parted lips that keep letting out little breaths like Liam’s scared to get loud.

Fuck, he wants Liam loud and uncontrollable and feral.

He twists his hips, grinning when Liam sighs out a moan, back arching.  He pushes Liam’s legs a little further apart, finding that angle to fuck right up against Liam’s prostate and he watches Liam’s cock throb harder, thicker.  He grinds down mercilessly – _And the only way to last. And the only way to live it is to hold on when you get love and let go when you give it_ – and watches the way Liam’s cock pushes out fat drops of precome like his body’s been waiting for this for too long.

Their kisses taste like sweat and need, Zayn’s tongue licking at Liam’s teeth.  His fingers curl around Liam’s hips, digging into flesh as Liam’s palm presses against the small of Zayn’s back, pushing him deeper.  His knees feel sore and beaten from the hard surface of the floor but he continues on until Liam’s waning and shivering beneath him.

He tilts his hips just a little – _The secret melody, it might help you through the night time. But it doesn’t make it easy to leave the party at the right time_ – and Liam jerks his head back, nodding.

“Harder,” Liam gasps, eyes squeezed shut and Zayn complies without thinking.

His lips run against Liam’s ear, “You’re gonna want this again later.  Fuck, ‘m gonna make you want it all the time.”

Liam fucking _coos_ at that, smirking, tangling his fingers in his hair to drag Zayn down for a bruising kiss.  Tongue slides over his, wet and firm, and Zayn squeezes Liam’s arse for good measure before biting down hard on Liam’s lip.

“Nothing like this,” Liam gasps out, eyes lidded but honest – _If I’m frightened, if I’m high. It’s my weakness, please forgive it_ – and Zayn’s careening downward.  He’s nosing Liam’s jaw, listening intently when Liam adds, “They were _nothing_ like this.”

Zayn bites down on Liam’s collarbone, squeezing a hand between them to curl around Liam’s cock.  He pulls the foreskin back, thumbing the wet, slick head.  The room is a spinning kind of heat like a newborn summer, thick and hazy, and Liam’s panting below him, all around him.

“Christ,” Liam hisses, back arching again when Zayn’s cock strikes right on that bundle of nerves.

Change the angle, timely thrusts, and Zayn thinks he can see a galaxy of stars when Liam shakes beneath him.  He’s so wet against Zayn’s fingers, sticky and ready and Zayn fucks him a little harder.  He smiles against Liam’s cheek, remembering poetic words and nights reading along to Tolkien being one of his favorite memories.

 _Until now_.  Nothing adds up to this, he swears by it.

“Close,” Zayn heaves out, thighs aching and back coiled in pain.

Liam nods, frantic with his breathy moans that tickle Zayn’s ear like – _Take the weakest thing in you and then beat the bastards with it_ – as he curls his legs around Zayn’s hips, keeps him deep.

He adores the quiet smile that sways over Liam’s lips, everything perfectly sweet and honest as he bites at Zayn’s neck, makes promises with swirled colors around them and the heady scent of sweat, sex, and paint in the air.

Liam comes quick and earnest and pleading – “Fuck me _harder_ , babe.” – and Zayn smirks at the way the white shines over Liam’s belly.  He thumbs at the slit, coating his fingers, fucking mewling when Liam pants out he’s too sensitive, too broken.  He rocks back against Zayn, encouraging, still needy and Zayn takes it as a sign to keep going.

He fucks Liam until the room closes in on them, dark from the hidden sun and the pastels of the sky, and he’s just quick thrusts searching for an end.  He’s a blur of motions, kissing at the corner of Liam’s mouth, pressing their foreheads together with his eyes closed – he can’t look at Liam without thinking _forever and ever_ – before he’s hitching on a breath and coming hot, wet inside of Liam.

His body shakes, cock pulsing, everything going black, black, dark.  He’s seeing colored spots when his eyes blink open and Liam’s beneath him, kissing at his chin, along his jaw, smirking like he’s still overdosing on heaven.

The stars start to blink outside when he rests his body heavy on top of Liam, carefully sliding out, tracing his finger over Liam’s hole to feel the seeping come and wet surface.  They trade off shy glances, noses brushing, quiet kisses that feel like emotions untouched.  He combs his clean hand through Liam’s hair, likes the way Liam curls an arm around him to hold him close – _to keep you safe_ , he thinks instead.  They roll over the cold floor, tangling limbs together and trade off kissing and breathing like that’s all the human body needs.

There’s a thump at the door, little snickers on the other side, and Zayn’s burying his head in the crook of Liam’s neck when Harry calls out, muffled but loud, “You two sound _amazing_.  Fuck, I want in on that.”

“Harry,” Louis whines but Zayn can hear his giggle, pitchy and effeminate, as he says, “Foursomes are so dated, you knob.  I just wanna know if Liam is always that… fuck, he sounds _hot_.”

“Fuck off, you twats,” Zayn yells back and he doesn’t hide the smile swelling over his lips when Liam chuckles against his hairline.  He absentmindedly traces the smudges of blue paint now messy and faded across Liam’s chest from pushing too close, skin on skin.

“Greedy, greedy Zaynie,” Louis teases and they’re cackling, the soft sound of their footfalls as they dash off discouraging Zayn just slightly.

Liam’s cuddling closer and, for a sparse moment, he can breathe without feeling overwhelmed.  And Liam kisses him like it’s okay for him not to want more than this.

Nothing binding, at least.  Because, honestly, he can’t afford that.

**

He thinks it’s funny, how much this flat feels like _home_ even though he still considers his old bedroom with the mattress spread out on the floor, Doniya’s stereo playing too loudly, and that beat up settee he’d recline on with his feet kicked up on his mum’s coffee table home.  He sort of loves the way the door still sticks and the way he can always tell Louis’ in a good mood because he can hear a marathon of _Naruto_ through the thick wooden door or when Harry’s home because his music always plays louder than the neighbours’ – some days its Lenny Kravitz, most days its Bob Marley and the Wailers, but days like this it’s usually some mind-numbing Tori Amos.

They’re nearly midway through term, still just the dawn of October though it’s getting much colder outside and the leaves are rust colored rather than orange-red, when he stumbles through the door with too heavy textbooks weighing down his shoulderbag and the hood of his jumper pulled over his head.  Louis’ sat on the couch with his legs folded beneath him, one of Harry’s increasingly silly beanies tucked over his hair and the fringe is peeking out in a feathered mess of brown.  He looks up with sharp blue eyes – like stars over the ocean – and a finger scratching at the scruff, thick and light, rounding his mouth before a smile curls there.  He’s got a used copy of _Death of a Salesman_ – he’s at the stage where he’s studying nothing but great stage plays in hopes of improving his craft, last week being _Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_ – and the remote balanced on one of his knees, another rerun of _Naruto_ playing nearly mute on the telly.

Harry’s wailing, with half-mumbled words and his head tipped back, through Modest Mouse – _Well, we’ll all float on, good news is on the way. And we’ll all float on, okay_ – and he’s fitted into a nice, white button down from Topman with tight gray slacks.  His curls shine beneath the light of the kitchen, fist thrown up in mock celebration before he’s air guitaring through the music, various sized bowls strewn across the counter, mugs of cold coffee, wooden spoons, several utensils Zayn didn’t even know they owned and Liam grinning behind him with a silly apron on.

He sucks in a sharp breath because, fuck, _Liam_.

The air is thick with the scent of something aromatic, maybe even spicy, and Louis’ thumbing at the paper airplane tattooed along his arm with a look that says _‘yes, we have corrupted him and you’re fucked for it’_ that makes Zayn’s stomach drop out.  He steps out of his boots, moving cloyingly slow through the living area before dropping his bag off near the couch.  He eyes Liam, whose smirk drops a little, blush fevered against his cheeks as he stirs something in a rather large pot.  He can’t help the way his eyebrow arches, lips quirking into a bitten out smile as a greeting and his mind races with _why are you here_ and _I’ve missed you_.

Zayn settles onto the beaten down cushions of the couch, poking at Louis’ bare thigh while still looking over his shoulder toward the kitchen where Harry and Liam settle into a lighthearted chat about Julia Chiles and the secrets of baking a good cake.  Louis smacks at his hand, draws his wide eyes back, and Zayn’s nervously chewing at his lip.

“Liam’s _here_ ,” Zayn says quietly, picking at some idle thread in his jeans.  He’s looking up at Louis through long, spidery eyelashes, his head ducked.

Louis nods quickly, chuffed and unfazed by Zayn’s pale expression.  “That the lad is.  Took him in myself.”

“And he’s _cooking_?”

“Doesn’t it smell great,” Louis hums, leaning back while folding his book closed.  He drums his fingers on the cover, taking stray glances toward the television with hiked up grins.

Zayn nods slowly, sniffing in warm aroma and red pepper and something sharp and it tastes like _home_ when he flicks his tongue over his lips.  He takes another glance over his shoulder, Liam’s eyes crinkled around the corners as he laughs at Harry and there’s something faintly pink fluttering over those round cheeks like embarrassment and joy and something utterly contagious that Zayn fawns over.

“He’s absolute shit at everything in the kitchen,” Harry says resolutely, jerking his head in Zayn’s direction and Zayn doesn’t bite back the frown folding over his lips.

“You fuck.”

Harry shrugs, pushing back curls, refolding the sleeves of his shirt until they’re high up his elbows and he has more room to maneuver through the kitchen.  “He burnt toast.  _Thrice_.”

Zayn rolls his eyes at Harry’s mild attempt at sounding just a tiny bit educated, grinning when Liam snorts, covering his face with a hand.

“He’s shit at dancing too,” Liam teases, lips fluffed up with the kind of cheeky grin that looks slightly mischievous and dark.

Zayn balks, offering Liam a middle-fingered salute when he cackles.  “You can’t draw.”

Liam wrinkles his brow, folding his arms over his chest and something’s bubbling mercilessly in the pot behind him.

“You said you liked my flower.”

“I said I liked your _face_ while you tried to draw it,” Zayn counters and he’s shrinking so quickly when Liam smiles fondly, Louis giggling and Harry’s eyebrows are lifted high into his hairline.  Zayn pushes at his hair, curling in on himself with blush sinking into his cheeks, down his neck, across the tops of his ears.

“You’re shit at crossword puzzles,” Zayn mumbles, chin resting on his pulled up knees, feet sinking between the cushions below.  “And Lou’s feet stink.”

Louis scoffs, flicking Zayn’s temple and laughter echoes off the walls like thundering rhythms of music.

“Harry leaves dirty socks in the bed.  And he always steals the duvet,” Louis says mockingly, his face still crowded with wrinkles and disdain.  He lets a smile slide over his lips when looking at Harry, wrinkling his nose at him for a brief second.  “And your tea is horrible.”

“But I add orange zest and lemon and three scoops of sugar, plus there’s – “

Louis sighs, loud and high.  “Too much.  It’s overdone.  Your tea is mythical.”

Harry scrunches his brow and Zayn thinks they’re complete idiots and he might be in love with the way Liam’s laughing, a sympathetic hand rubbing at Harry’s shoulder with a scrunched nose.

“Zayn’s horrid at sports,” Liam offers, still placating Harry with the corners of his mouth curled.

“That’s a given,” Louis says mildly, waving off Zayn when he shoots him an incredulous glare.  “You are mate.”

Zayn doesn’t argue that, eyeing Liam as he draws up a wooden spoon of stew, blowing cautiously at it before offering up a taste of it to Harry.  Something pinches at his nerve – _jealousy?_ – and he sinks a little lower into the couch at the way Harry and Liam grin at each other, looking accomplished and a bit smitten with this new friendship.

“Can we trade him off for you?” Louis whispers, leaning in close and his nose brushes just the edge of Zayn’s cheek.

Zayn sighs softly, Liam and Harry curling into each other with arms strewn around shoulders and laughter slicing the suddenly too thick air.

“No,” Zayn says lowly, teeth clamping down on his bottom lip.  “’s just not… I dunno.  I have school and I just _can’t_ Lou.”

There’s something dull on Louis’ lips like a frown, his eyebrows knit together.  He rests a hand on the nape of Zayn’s neck like _I’m sorry_ before he sighs out, “But why can’t we keep him?”

Zayn doesn’t answer him, a smile shoved against his lips before he can think about it when Liam comes closer, curling his arms around both of them and laughing into Zayn’s ear.

He’s not even sure _why_ but, by definition and prescribed doses, he knows he just _can’t_.

It’s later, the living room cascaded with purplish shadows and cool air, with the telly on mute and the bluish light dropping hints of cerulean across Liam’s face.  Harry’s passed out, starfish-style, in his bed and Louis’ out with Eleanor because, occasionally, he’s the kind of appropriate mate that beckons to her every call.  Zayn’s curled on the couch with Liam’s head in his lap and Zayn’s trading glances between _An Ideal Husband_ and the quiet mahogany shade of Liam’s eyes.  He’s grinning, unexplained and unconsciously, down at Liam while feeding him scoops of double fudge brownie ice cream from a metal fork – Liam has some sort of affliction with spoons that’s not yet explained but Zayn seems to find affection in all of Liam’s little quirks – and the dark is somehow comforting.

He plays with his glasses, pushing them up and higher on his nose while Liam looks solemn and thoughtful.  A tongue licks across silver, slicking away chocolate, dribbles of it sliding across his chin.  Zayn thumbs it away, fingers sticking to the pages as he turns them but he doesn’t seem to mind.  It’s oddly serpentine, this feeling, and it scares him when he thinks too much about it.

“My middle name is James,” Liam whispers in the shadows, teeth clinking on the fork, and he’s looking up at the ceiling rather than at Zayn this time.  His lips poke out as he mashes the ice cream around with his tongue, fingers drumming against his chest before he adds, “My dad gave it to me.  Says he loves the name.  Me mum – “

The pause is a bit long, Liam’s shoulders tensing, the world collapsing for a brief second.  His eyebrows lower, eyes sliding shut and Zayn can’t stop himself from leaning down.

Liam’s lips are deliciously cold and sweet and Zayn feels as broken as Liam’s expression was.  He sucks gently at Liam’s bottom lip, thoughts tangled in lyrics – _If I stay here, trouble will find me_ – and he waits until Liam’s kissing him back before he lets a smile pet his lips.

He draws back, catches the shadows sketching around the shape of Liam’s grin, thumbing the pattern of Liam’s thick eyebrows.

“Think he wanted something that wasn’t very pretentious,” Liam says with a curl to his tongue and Zayn smiles down at him so, fuck, _affectionately_ that it hurts his own cheeks.  He remembers teaching Liam that word, sucking it off his tongue in the dark with sweaty bodies and cocks aching from release, and that swell of pride inside of him crowds his chest, depleting bits of oxygen.

Zayn nods down at him, drawing stars and hearts across Liam’s cheek with his index finger.

“I can tell you more,” Liam promises, reaching up to press his palm to Zayn’s cheek.  “If you give me time.”

“S’good,” Zayn says back, a drag to his tone that reminds him he’s slowly trying to find a way out of this before he forgets his own purpose here.

Liam smiles gently and Zayn settles for kissing that off his lips before it burns like each intake of air has been for days now.

**

Its mid-October, the smooth taste of some wickedly brewed citrus tea Louis made for him still on his tongue, and smudges of paint across his left cheek.  He’s not thinking of Hemmingway or Dickinson or the auspicious words of Tennyson that filter through his head occasionally during moments like this.  His hair is messily tucked beneath a black beanie he nicked off Louis a year ago and the cuffs of his jeans are rolled just above his ankle.  His bare feet pad along hardwood floor, opened button down shirt – it’s Liam’s and he can’t get away from the way his cock ached the first time he saw Liam in it, right before Liam fucked him on his knees across wrinkled sheets just after a meeting Liam had with some money management team – hanging loosely off his shoulders and swaying with the quiet breeze flitting through the room.

He strokes a paintbrush over a half-finished canvas that’s already smudged in pastel green, burnt orange, faded off pinks and summer blues.  Teeth bite down cautiously over his bottom lip, working in water colors today because, to him, all art is beautiful.  He likes the different mediums and the way he’s easily inspired by the words of Socrates to paint in dark colors or the drum of a good Lupe Fiasco song makes him want to spray paint bright red symbols across already finished pieces.

His thumb rubs across his chin, leaving behind dots of sleek yellow, and tries to capture the skyline, the way it looks in the heart of summer.  His jeans sink lower and lower as he adds new colors to his palette, a pair of Liam’s boxers barely holding them up and he wiggles his toes over the newspaper-covered floor until they’re no longer cold.  He pushes up the sleeves of the shirt mid-forearm, the _ZAP_ tattoo already smudged in bright green and the microphone coiling around his arm is printed red and blue.

Harry taps at the door occasionally, because he’s been buried in here for hours with nothing but Radiohead and the Beastie Boys playing painfully low, to offer him more tea and company.  Louis peeks in occasionally because he just can’t not be _that guy_ who checks on his mates with wild grins and bright, bright blue eyes.  He ignores his phone, the buzz constant because he’s probably supposed to be studying with that pretty brunette Jade or getting with a literary group that’s led by that douche Michael who always wants to talk in third person about the life and times of Oscar Wilde.  He just works through color after color in a slow, methodic pace until he doesn’t need a cigarette every half-hour and the change in pressure lifts his shoulders a little.

There’s paint smudged across his forehead when he strokes out a Batman symbol over his clean arm, nose wrinkling at the way he knows he does it because of Liam.  He doesn’t wash it off an hour later when he’s taking a small break for freshly-cooked biscuits – Harry adores chocolate chip but still makes a batch of gingersnaps just for Louis because, well, Harry is so damn compassionate when it comes to Louis – and he answers a few texts from Doniya, scrolling over the one from Liam a dozen times before opening it.

He reads it over and over until it bleeds against his brain – _‘be my tony stark ;) x’_ – and it’s stupid the way it’s signed in emoticons and the kind of grammar incorrectness that follows everything Liam does but he smiles, hard, down at it until his tea is cold against his tongue and all he wants to do is paint in muted browns, ruddy pinks, and sunglow.  He huffs through a cigarette, sitting in the windowsill, and it takes him too long to muster up the courage to send a reply – _‘come by so I can suck your cock & read you keats xx Z’ _– and he pockets his phone before Liam can say anything back.

He thinks about the birth of stars, the stories his mum would tell him as a kid, why all of this feels like being a child again when Liam’s cuddled close to him that night.  The room reeks of sweat, a manly musk, half-finished cigarettes he never makes it through because Liam wants more lazy kisses and the Chinese takeaway they ate on the floor of his bedroom, naked with smiles.  Liam’s cold toes run over the bones in his ankle, down the arch of his foot and there’s parted lips letting out little snores against his neck.

Zayn’s breath hitches when Liam cuddles closer, warm fingers on Zayn’s hipbone, a thumb idly stroking over that thick heart tattooed to Zayn’s waist.  He looks down at Liam, kisses his hairline just because he can, and he stills when Liam’s breathing goes in, out, a soft sweep of warmth.  The sheets are tangled around their legs and waists and, even in the dark, he can map out all the little bites and scratches he’s left over Liam’s shoulder like a map that spells out _‘my property.’_

He brushes his lips over Liam’s just to taste the mint of his own toothpaste, the bitter taste of his come still against the cracked, chapped lines of Liam’s mouth.  He noses over Liam’s temple and he’s never been this affectionate with another lad before.  He’s been quick fucks, sloppy blowjobs, a fist bump and high five when everything was over.  Even his kisses with girls, lips coated in cherry chapstick and perfume lingering against his skin, felt adequate rather than irreversibly permanent like they did with Liam.

Liam’s beautiful right here, in Zayn’s wiry arms that try to fit around all of that muscle and skin and mass.  The moon, silvery and soft, streaks over his skin and Zayn thinks maybe Liam’s even more breathtaking when it’s just the dark and silence.  And he thinks this is dangerous – feeling so overcome that he can’t walk away – but his body won’t pull away.  It’s gravity, according to Louis, that keeps two objects so close but Zayn thinks it’s something more like the way he doodles Liam’s name into the margins of his notebook and the way he can recite Liam’s favorite songs in order rather than quote E.E. Cummings or the likes.

Liam blinks awake for a moment, yawning loudly, drawing Zayn in until their arms curve around each other like the long limbs of a tree.  Liam’s scruff tickles his neck, his lips focus on Liam’s cheek until it burns beneath the flesh and Liam says something soft against his skin, “Like, you are heaven for me.”

Zayn grins, goofily and fucking irrationally, before he whispers back, “ _Sleep_.  You are deprived of sleep, babe.”

And nothing sounds as hypnotic as Liam’s soft murmurs before he’s sucking a round bruise into Zayn’s neck and sleep feels like the last thing they’ll manage to focus on now.

**

Louis Tomlinson is a petulant child.

He’s the kind that throws fits, tosses his box of crayons at the wall, fucking chucks heavy objects at your head, and sits cross-legged in the middle of the floor with his arms crossed over his chest and his bottom lip poking out.

Zayn’s trying to memorize sections of _War and Peace_ for an upcoming lecture – stacks of thick, thick textbooks surrounding him, on the floor, open across the coffee table, sticking out of his shoulderbag – and his feet are resting in Liam’s lap.  He ignores Louis’ winding sighs, watches Liam add cinnamon and fucking crème to his coffee even though he hates anything like that but he tries it for Liam because there’s a nervous, bitten smile on Liam’s lips like he wants to satisfy Zayn in every little way possible.  And maybe he likes the way Liam’s dirty plaid shirt is nearly completely unbutton, exposing the thickness of his chest and the tuft of hair that runs down the center, or the way Liam’s thick fingers massage the bones in his feet until something stirs in the pit of Zayn’s stomach, calming him.

He lets Liam highlight words in his text – _love, adoration, innocence, human_ – while Louis kicks at Zayn’s bag and Harry hums gleefully from the kitchen, the whistle of the kettle distracting enough that he doesn’t hear all the grumbled out words Louis’ letting slip through his tightly pressed together lips.

Harry looks sharp in one of those almost sky blue dress shirts with the cuffs rolled up just above his wrists – because he doesn’t want to look too put together – and a slimming black waistcoat.  His jeans pull at his skinny thighs, boots scuffing along the tiling in the kitchen, and his hair is tousled but still perfectly Harry.  His green eyes look jade under the dim luminosity of that yellowy light just over the stove and he’s adding mint to his tea – something Zen he learned while studying Chinese subcultures, no doubt – while swaying through the kitchen.

“You look incredible, mate,” Liam whistles out, grinning openly like a brother and Harry’s smirking back, winking.

“Don’t be cheeky,” Zayn laughs out, but the words on his tongue read like _‘he’s mine, you little twat’_ and it’s disturbing the way he’s incredibly possessive with Liam.  He doesn’t have a right to because Liam’s not exactly a boyfriend or anything but he’s _something_.

Zayn can admit that much.

There’s an agile curve to Harry’s grin, the way his lips curl around the lip of his cup before he’s hoarsely saying, “’m very good at that.  Would you like to find out?”

Zayn makes a face and Liam’s barking out a laugh, his fingers unconsciously sliding up Zayn’s ankle, curling around it.  He feels warm and unfocused but he’s suddenly fallen in love with the word _distraction_.

“He’s going to make you eat humus and all sorts of shit,” Louis hisses, his voice on low with his brow wrinkled angrily.

“ _Lou_ ,” Zayn hisses, reaching back to smack Louis’ shoulder, something that makes the smaller bloke flinch.  “Rude, yeah?”

“Sorry,” he mutters to _Liam_ instead of Zayn and Zayn gets why.  He still flicks a finger at the back of Louis’ neck because he can.  And because Louis deserves it.

“He’ll show you a good time,” Liam promises, leaning his head back to regard Harry.

Harry smirks, nodding.  He lowers his cup of tea, hands splayed over the kitchen counter before he says, “I reckon I can show him a good time later on then.”

Louis fucking _yelps_ like a wounded pup, Liam wheezing on a laugh, and Zayn thinks it’s rather endearing how he knows both Harry and Liam are putting on a show for Louis.  It’s ridiculous but still comical.

Something Harry loves plays in the background like a symphony – _For crying out loud, settle down. You know I can’t be found with you_ – while Liam offers Zayn a cooled cup of coffee, turning the pages for Zayn as he hums his approval.  Liam’s thumb brushes away the residue from Zayn’s bottom lip and Zayn’s teeth catch on his skin, hot tongue soothing the burn of his lips until Liam’s looking downright abashed with pink staining his cheeks.  The knock at the door hitches Louis’ breath and Zayn loves the way Liam smiles a kiss against the corner of his mouth, Louis hurling one of Zayn’s thick books at Harry’s feet as he scrambles to answer the door.

Niall looks quite dapper even though he still has a snapback pushing down his blonde hair and a goofy grin on his lips.  But his varsity jacket fits nicely, his collared shirt beneath undone at the first two buttons, and the red rushing his cheeks matches the stripes on his trainers.  Those eyes are blue like the inner most part of a flame and he does a neat little spin when Liam wolf-whistles at him, parading around in dark jeans and an air of sharp cologne that actually smells better than the usual body spray and Nando’s he usually reeks of.

He offers Harry a knowing grin before reaching out to thread his fingers through Zayn’s already mused hair, nodding at Liam as some form of silent greeting.  Louis’ thumps a fist against a corner of the couch, biting out a welcome that Zayn bets he regrets when Niall smiles down at him like Louis’ the universe and everything else is just a distant star.  It’s an even exchange of looks that has Liam leaning in close, muttering words against Zayn’s neck, and he wants to think about Tolstoy rather than this painfully awkward moment.

“You look nice,” Harry says, almost shyly, sliding a large hand over Niall’s waist.

Niall lifts his brow, the corner of his mouth curling devilishly.  “You look ace too.  Quite suckable.”

Liam chokes on a laugh, Zayn gaping at them, and Louis actually does throw a few of Zayn’s pens this time, pouting just a little louder.

Harry’s cheeks are fevered pink and he’s taller than Niall, leaning down to make up the difference and kiss Niall’s cheek just for a second long enough to offer Louis a view like he’s trying to prove something.  Zayn wrinkles his nose, Louis’ eyes wide and sulking, and Zayn has to look away because, despite the better part of himself, he knows this is artfully painful and unnecessary.  Liam’s fingers catch his chin, lifting it, and suddenly he can’t remember the last time he read something as honestly endearing as Liam’s eyes before.

“Shall we watch the tragically heroic _Captain America_ or the sophisticatedly dark _Batman Begins_ , babe?” he asks, his voice a sweep of gentleness that shows in the smile on his pinkish lips.

Zayn bites at his lower lip, Liam’s fingers tickling the faint stubble on his jaw, and he breathes in words – _We get back to my house. Your arms, my mouth_ – before replying, “How about _Toy Story_?”

He loves the way Liam’s mouth spreads wider, the crinkle of his eyes like he’s _impressed_ and so fucking over the moon with the suggestion.  It quirks up a grin over Zayn’s lips.

“Y’know for the irrevocable look at friendships and the purpose-driven message of longing for something,” Zayn explains, trying to tuck away his smile, hide the way he’s really doing this because he wants Liam happy.

He _always_ wants Liam happy.

They share secret smiles like that all through Louis’ stomping off toward his bedroom with a broken look glazing Harry’s eyes, the clumsy way Niall tries to be a gentleman and help Harry into his coat, the messy tangle of their fingers as they head out the door like neither one of them really knows what they’re doing, and the way Louis sighs out every few breaths like it hurts until he’s sleep and not begging Liam for tea or to cuddle with Zayn.

Guilt doesn’t rinse over him like he thinks it’s should an hour later when Woody and all of his friends are forgotten on mute against the television and they’re settled across the couch, half-naked, with Liam’s head in his lap and the sounds of loud slurping cascading off the walls.  He can still see Liam’s spit-shiny cock, hard, bobbing between his legs as he swallows Zayn down until Zayn’s eyes are rolling backward.  His throat feels rough – not that he minds the way Liam likes to fuck his mouth, leave him gagging with precome and saliva sliding down his chin – and he’s only gasping out half of Liam’s name as Liam’s fingers pinch at his thigh and his mouth pleads with Zayn to thrust up into it.

Liam’s tongue is _addictive_ – that feels like the right word though Zayn could think of a million other descriptive adjectives to use for that slick piece of pink flesh – and it works Zayn’s shaft, the dark head, the slit like Liam’s obsessed with Zayn’s prick.  He curls around the tip, leaving it wetter, shiny, fucking glossed over until Zayn’s shaking and digging his toes into the cushion of the couch.  He looks fucking debauched with his legs spread wide, his shirt rucked up high on his chest and trembling fingers working through Liam’s semi-quiff.  He rotates his hips – anti-clockwise because it throws Liam off – and he lets Liam open his throat before he slowly lifts upward into that tight, wet heat.

Thumbs rake over the inside of his thighs, lips doing their best to curve into a smile as Liam’s looking swollen and red.  He arches his spine, everything moving inside out, and his teeth nip too roughly at his bottom lip when Liam pulls off obscenely like a porn star trying to get that money shot.  Liam’s still got socks on and he looks like a fucking teenager with one hand on Zayn’s cock, the other between his own legs, and Zayn’s name kissed into the vein of Zayn’s cock.

“Would you swallow for me?” Zayn asks between hard pants and sweat sliding down his temple.

Liam hums, smirking, kissing the slit.  “Have before, haven’t I?”

“Let me come on your lips?  Your face?”

Liam shudders, sinking lower, mumbling out a response that sounds like, _‘fuck yes.’_

Zayn smirks, proud and egotistical, until Liam’s teeth drag on the underside of his cock and he thinks he’d let Liam come in his fucking _hair_ if it got Liam off.  He’d swallow and spread Liam’s come over his hole with his tongue until Liam was begging to be fucked raw.

It’s filthy and exciting and Liam fucking swallows him down until Zayn’s just on the edge, begging for a little less tongue and a lot more of Liam looking up at him through those pretty lashes.

Liam’s fingers dig into his hips, rubbing gently over the bruises Liam already left the other night, before he’s pulling off wetly and grinning, turning Zayn over.  He moves Zayn’s pliant body into position with his knees digging into the cushion and a hand splayed on the small of Zayn’s back, pushing his arse higher.  Zayn feels exposed, cheeks painted pink, and he barely has enough strength to twist his neck around and look over his shoulder at Liam.

“Tell me no one else has done this for you,” Liam says before the first flick of his tongue rushes over Zayn’s hole, fingers pulling apart the cheeks for a better angle.  He’s fucking smiling against Zayn’s hole, tongue swirling, everything coming back wet.  “Tell me no one else has made you feel this incredible, babe.”

Zayn wants to say otherwise but someone else has done this before – quite horribly he should add but that feels like an afterthought.  He can say no one has been as good at this as Liam, with the tip of his tongue gently opening Zayn up, his index finger teasingly circling Zayn’s hole.  He can recite _Liam_ every time he’s made Zayn feel broken and detached after sex, carefully putting him back together with soft kisses in the dark.  Yet, words won’t lift off his tongue when Liam’s stubble scrapes along the back of his thighs and his tongue licks into him like he needs to taste Zayn.

He shakes, fingers curling into a throw pillow with his teeth biting into his own bicep to silence his whimpers.  He pushes back, loving the quiet coo Liam offers in response, and he’s fucking himself on Liam’s tongue, teeth, lips.  Liam’s fingers dig into his hip, roughly, and he whines at the way Liam licks long stripes up his crack like he’s trying to quiet this feeling inside of Zayn.

“Loosen up for me, babe,” Liam whispers, husky and deep, and it takes Zayn a moment to realize Liam’s working a thick finger into him without lube.  The nail scratches, the thickness around the knuckle dragging an edgy burn up his spine, but he’s obedient and desperate for more.

The finger fucks in and out of him and Liam’s kissing the feathered tail on the back of his neck, grinding his achingly hard dick against the back of Zayn’s thigh.  And Zayn thinks _fuck me, fuck me, fuck me_ when Liam adds a second finger, his cock curving upward toward his belly as Liam pushes down on his prostate.

“Gonna eat you out some more,” Liam says like a secret, like a fucking _promise_ , trailing kisses down Zayn’s spine, “and I wan’ you to come with my tongue in you, ‘kay?”

Zayn whimpers, dropping his head before he can nod and the first push of Liam’s tongue in him nearly unsettles every coiled muscle in his body.  The way Liam works his finger in too until Zayn feels full and ready to grind down on Liam’s face leaves his cock dripping all over his notes about Russian literary pieces and the great works of Tolstoy.

His knee slips but Liam’s strong hands hold him up, lift his hips for a better angle and he’s choking on a breath as Liam fucking tongues him slippery.  He breaks with a shaky hand on his cock, thumb working the underside of the head until his fingers are slick with his come and Liam’s dragging his hand back to lick away the stickiness, smiling around Zayn’s middle and ring finger until he’s coming over the back of Zayn’s thigh with a very dramatic sigh that Zayn thinks was all for the neighbors rather than Zayn – because, somewhere in the middle of this, Zayn’s learned Liam’s a bit of exhibitionist from time to time.

They’re both weak and smiley and sticky when they fold around each other on the damp cushions of the couch.  Liam’s fingers are tangled in his hair and Zayn’s scribbling out _‘you broke me’_ over Liam’s heaving chest.  Their kisses are sloppy and he tastes himself on the edge of Liam’s tongue before Liam’s nuzzling their noses together like this moment needs a touch of sentimentality.  It doesn’t, well, not if Zayn wants to remain sane, though he thinks he went mad weeks ago with people like Liam encouraging it.

“Louis’ not gonna get over Harry and Niall,” Zayn says with restless breaths and his foot nearly falling asleep underneath Liam.  He says it because he doesn’t want to talk about that paper he hasn’t started yet that’s due in two weeks or the way he’s going to be miserable early in the morning when Liam kisses his cheek, makes him coffee, and sneaks off to the construction site.

“But Harry’s gon’ get over Niall,” Liam tells him, nosing Zayn’s cheek.  “I guarantee it.”

Zayn doesn’t ask _why_ or _how_ Liam knows because he doesn’t have to.  He thinks Liam knows best, in this instance, and settles for pressing slow kisses to Liam’s lips before he can remember he’s not doing this this term.

He’s not falling for distractions and boys like Liam.  But, fuck, he kind of is.

**

Zayn thinks, sometimes, it’s odd that he thinks in Whitman – _‘without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his sex’_ – in moments like this, with a hidden smile creasing over his lips and his fingers feeling numb and cold.

He can hear the music outside, muffled and loud as it bangs off the walls of the pub – _And this is how it starts: you take your shoes off in the back of my van_.  He’s sure there’s more than one pissed lad pounding at the thick wooden door to the loo but they deadbolted it before they stumbled inside, drunk off beers and colorful drinks that Harry kept feeding them to celebrate passing his exam on the views on French politics or something of that nature.  Liam’s hands are impatient on his hips, pinching and bruising, and he’s giggling into the back of Zayn’s neck, the sound clinking off the metal of the stall they shoved each other into.

Teeth work over his bottom lip and he can still taste the salt that rimmed the glass of the margarita Louis bought Liam each time he presses sloppy, off-center kisses to Zayn’s mouth.  His jeans are undone, somewhere below his knees, and his pants are tangled around his thighs.  Liam’s scruff bites along the space between neck and shoulder and his shirt is hanging off the door with Liam’s somewhere on the sink outside.  Liam’s cock, stiff and leaking, runs along his arse and he hates the way he snickers girlishly when Liam produces a little packet of lube like a sleight-of-hand with a pleased grin working over his swollen lips.

“Condom?” he asks, his voice already husky and thick and Zayn thinks in beats rather than words – _Yeah, my shirt looks so good, when it’s just hanging off your back_.

He pounds a balled up fist against the wall, rattling the stall and Liam giggles into his neck, lays soft kisses there.  They soothe and untangle the knots in his stomach that taste acidic and _anticipation_ hangs off the tip of his tongue.

“No,” Zayn finally hisses, tipping his head back until it rests on Liam’s shoulder and he hates the way his back immediately arches when Liam lines his cock up, wishing he could watch Liam fold the foreskin back and the pink head and – _oh_.  “Just, _please_.  Li, you know what I – “

“What you _need_ ,” Liam whispers, filthy and ready.  Fuck, he’s so wet and ready.  “My dick, right?  Inside you babe.  You want it, yeah?”

Zayn nods, eyes squeezed shut and he doesn’t really need Liam’s fingers though he willingly accepts them.  He’s still open and loose and fucking ready from earlier, in his bedroom with Liam’s mouth on Zayn’s cock and Zayn’s own fingers twisting and fingering himself until he came hot down Liam’s throat.

He hisses when Liam works in with two fingers instead of one, biting down on his bottom lip to muffle a moan and Liam’s tonguing just under his jaw, thrusting his slick cock against the back of Zayn’s thigh until he fucking careens back into it.  Sweat slides down from his temple and he can taste the sour taste of imported beer at the back of his throat, tequila still burning stiffly in his chest.  He cranes his neck, presses his mouth to Liam’s just to suck the sweetness of chocolate and a Sex on the Beach off Liam’s tongue before Liam adds a third finger, tipping Zayn over.

“Fuck,” Zayn hums against Liam’s lips, snickering with him as Liam bumps their foreheads together and presses gently against Zayn’s slick hole.

“Slow or fast?”

“ _Dirty_ ,” Zayn gasps out, shivering when the head works past the rim.  “Whatever you like, babe.”

Liam snorts, a palm pressed to the middle of Zayn’s back until he’s arching higher and offering Liam the angle he needs to push in all the way to the hilt.  Fingers grip at his hips, hold him steadfast until he’s comfortable and then Liam’s sliding back out, slippery and thick.

“One day,” Liam says up against Zayn’s ear, blanketing Zayn’s body with his own, “I want to show you how slow I can be.  How good I can be.”

Zayn wants to tell him he’s always good, brilliant, fucking earth-shaking but his tongue feels heavy and he merely stumbles on a groan.

“I want to go so slow you cry and beg and I’ll kiss you until you forget where you are,” Liam adds, his thrusts quicker, the cascading sound of flesh against flesh mixing with – _We’ve got one thing in common: it’s this tongue of mine_.  “And, babe, I’ll show you.  I’ll show you why I look at you the way I do.  Why I’m so hard every time you smile or put on your glasses or just, fuck, _breathe_ Zayn.”

Zayn shudders, hitching on a breath.  He pushes his hips backward, tries to feel every catch of Liam’s cock against his prostate until he sees bursting stars and white lights behind his eyelids.  He whines when Liam tugs on his hair, straightens him and they’re kissing sloppily again, the loo suddenly too hot and suffocating.

His feet slip a little on the dirty floors, a hand fixed on Liam’s rocking hip while his other covers Liam’s around his cock, every tug drawing up a broken noise in the back of his throat.  He lets Liam leave behind bite marks on his shoulder, bruises along the side of his neck that he’ll have to cover before class in the morning.

Reflexively, he squeezes around Liam’s cock when Liam fingers the head of Zayn’s prick and Liam bucks a little too roughly.  He’s up against the stall wall and Liam’s pressing apologetic kisses around his cheek, his jawline until Zayn smirks and gives another purposeful squeeze.

“You’re gonna make me,” Liam wheezes on a breath, resting his forehead against the back of Zayn’s shoulder, “fuck, you know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

Zayn bites down on his tongue, rolls his hips until Liam pounds into him, hard but oh so gentle.

“Leeyum,” he coos, stretching his neck until he can spot the darkness of Liam’s eyes.  “I want it.”

Liam chuckles, biting Zayn’s cheek, licking a long stripe over his lips, kissing the tip of his nose.  He swallows and everything feels completely familiar and unrestrained – _Twenty minutes before I drop you off. All we seem to talk about is sex_.

He does his best to spread his legs a little wider, Liam slipping out clumsily before quickly shoving back in, and Zayn gasps at the way Liam’s pressing up against that bundle of nerves now.  He’s right there – _If we can’t do anything, we might as well just fuck_ – and Zayn’s biting his bottom lip raw as Liam flicks his thumb over the slit, fingers working the shaft, his balls drawing up until he lets out a long rush of air.  And Liam’s caging him in against the wall for a moment, whispering a litany of sweet, affectionate words that slow everything in Zayn’s mind to a dull, dull pattern.  He’s a safety net when all Zayn wants to do is fall without anyone catching him.

Liam comes roughly, all tongue and teeth and long mewling that dampens the back of Zayn’s neck.  Zayn licks his tongue against his lips and he feels it – the way Liam pulses in him, the way he feels full and wet and slick down there.  The stutter of Liam’s hand as he tries to recover, lazy drags that just aren’t quite enough, frustrate him until Liam’s breathing hard against the side of his neck and peeking over Zayn’s shoulder as he wanks Zayn properly.

His toes curl in his boots, stomach muscles clenched, and he streaks the metal wall of the stall with long strips of come.  He hiccups on every other breath and he’s dizzy before he even finishes.  He’s lightheaded, body numb and melting, and Liam coddles him like a child for a moment before smiling against Zayn’s jaw.

“You’re beautiful like that,” Liam says, mouthing kisses to Zayn’s stubble.  “I can’t get over it.”

Zayn grunts out a response that sounds nothing like himself and he waits until Liam pulls out, lube and come sliding down the back of his thigh, before he shuffles a little to turn around and kiss Liam, soft and dirty.  He lets Liam suck on his tongue as they try to work his pants up and he leans against the wall for support as Liam licks off the concern and fear swallowing him.

It’s too much intimacy with their foreheads touching and Liam’s nose brushing against his but he wallows in it until everything stops prickling just under his skin.

They clean up at the sink, elbows knocking, bursts of giggles when Liam wets Zayn’s hair and Zayn kicks Liam’s shin, and they kiss lazily against the door until their lips are swollen and their laughter subsides.

Liam tangles their fingers together and leads them through the crowd soaking in the atmosphere of the pub.  He slips onto one of the stools at the bar and he’s a heavy red when Harry and Louis give him a look like they know.  Fuck, the whole pub must know by now but he ignores the little incredulous looks from a few girls he knows to order up another drink, biting on a smile when Liam kisses his cheek and drags Harry off to play a game of pool – which, Zayn knows, he’ll royally kick Harry’s arse at because Harry’s more than three sheets to the wind and he’s shit at pool anyway, sober or not.

“You’ve got that look,” Doniya giggles out when she passes Louis a beer and Zayn a shot of something clear and strong.

“What look?” he inquires, circling his index finger around the rim of the shot glass while blinking at her.

She chews on a laugh, Louis rolling his eyes immediately and, fuck it all, Zayn’s quite finished with both of them.

“The _look_ ,” Doniya sighs, nodding halfway across the room where Liam’s already kicking Harry’s arse even though they’re two minutes into the game.  “You know, Zee.”

Zayn arches an eyebrow high, swallowing down the shot and everything goes bleary for just a second, out of focus.  He strokes his chin with nervous fingers and Louis’ dropping a heavy hand on his shoulder, rubbing at it in an almost patronizing fashion.

“You’re falling for him,” Louis slurs with a small sigh, dropping his chin some with an honest look that makes Zayn wrinkle his nose and cringe.

“’m not,” Zayn argues, waving Louis off but it doesn’t sound believable, not even to himself.

In fact, it’s the worst lie he’s told since he was eight years old and accidentally ran over Doniya’s cat with his bike.

Louis sputters out a laugh and Doniya’s shaking her head with a fond smile, looking every bit like their mum with her hair pulled up and hands on her hips.  She tilts her head a little, sympathetic and genuine, and Zayn feels his cheeks light up with pinkish blush that he can’t dull or hide.

He strokes his fingers over the riddled wood of the bar, glancing over his shoulder, and Liam’s grinning at him through the haze of smoke and far too many customers in the pub.  There’s something captivating about the curve of his smile, electric and everything Zayn’s read about in a dozen novels about the way love can make you euphoric beyond your own control.

“Cheers mate,” Louis huffs out, saluting Zayn with his beer bottle and Zayn has to order up two more shots just to thicken the buzz in his head, the thrum of something unfamiliar dense in his belly.

**

The sunrise beats perfectly outside his window, lighting up fairy dust, the ivory of his sheets, painting the walls and hardwood a patterned gold that he’ll sketch out one day just to see if he can get the effect right.  It’s warming in his too cold room, toes wiggling beneath a thick duvet that promises to keep him cozy when November comes and paints the world outside white with thick, dense snowflakes.  He thinks about lighting up a cigarette and staying here, lazy and unwilling, for hours but he can’t.  He’s meeting that dishy brunette Phoebe and her _‘literary-boyfriend’_ – which Zayn thinks is just code for gay friend – Elias for cups of coffee and long hours of discussions concerning Euripides and Greek tragedies.

He stretches long and wide, a broken yawn escaping his lips and he falters with a smile when a strong arm curls around his hips and lips settle just beneath his jaw.  He can’t help it, the way he instinctively nuzzles his cheek to Liam’s forehead, leaving behind red and angry skin from the sharpness of his morning scruff.  He ignores Liam’s soft whine, batting away tickling fingers that run the length of his ribs before he lets Liam tangle their legs together beneath the sheets like this is exultation in its most casual form.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Zayn asks, his voice still thick with sleep.

He thumbs along Liam’s jaw, tickled by the stubble, until Liam makes a face and bats his eyes open.  Warmth pools in his stomach when Liam rests his head against Zayn’s shoulder, mouthing along his collarbone like he’s horny or just overly-affectionate – Zayn can never tell the difference – and Zayn tangles free fingers in the thick brown hair at the top of Liam’s head.

“No,” Liam sighs out, his nose dragging along Zayn’s neck.  “More meetings.  Stuff back in Wolverhampton in the afternoon.  Intermediate bullshit.”

Zayn grins, lips curling, and he wonders when Liam took the time to memorize the definition of the word.

“Class?” Liam yawns out the question, exhaling a long breath before he’s working kisses to Zayn’s neck.  Zayn tilts his head a little, exposing more of that column of skin and he revels in the way Liam’s lips go pliant, kisses a little firmer.

“No, lecture in the afternoon.  Studying before.  Poetry reading this evening,” Zayn says in broken phrases and stifled giggles when Liam’s fingers wriggle beneath the sheet, work at the waistband of his joggers.

He doesn’t tell Liam how he planned to invite Liam out to the poetry reading because, well, he can’t.  He can’t admit that he always wants Liam around, even for all the silly things he loves and Liam just doesn’t get, though he tries enthusiastically to.  He doesn’t tell Liam he wants to cuddle all the time, especially after sex, or that he finds clarity when they’re on his couch, watching superhero films with the volume on low, and Liam’s mouth to his ear to whisper all of his favorite scenes.

Zayn can’t confess that he writes long lines of poetry about Liam’s jaw or his eyes or the soft bits of his hands when they’re on his skin.

He laughs to himself – Greek tragedies indeed.

“Dinner tomorrow?” Liam wonders, threading fingers through Zayn’s bed-fucked hair.

Zayn holds a breath in his lungs, letting it burn before he shyly replies, “Breakfast?”

He doesn’t say how he can’t wait that long to see Liam, wrinkling his brow and feeling completely fucked out.

Liam snorts, nodding, kisses mixed with tongue spread over Zayn’s neck.

“Gonna smoke?” Liam lifts his head, eyes crinkled with a smile but they’re soft today from lack of sleep and his cheeks look warm, glowing hazily like the sun outside.

Zayn shrugs but he’s already reaching for the beat-up pack that’s lying on the bedside table, right next to his glasses and that still unfinished copy of _New Moon_ – he’s embarrassed at how much he wants to read it because Louis is sort of obsessed with the films and maybe Zayn imagines Liam of something like a Taylor Lautner from time to time.

“I need to take a wee and ‘m craving a cuppa,” Liam says, bright and alive suddenly.

 _I’m craving you_ , Zayn thinks, discreetly reaching beneath the sheets to adjust his semi in his joggers.

He nods at Liam and a smirk is slipping over his lips when Liam quickly ducks in, pressing a wet kiss to Zayn’s lips that tastes like the McDonald’s from the night before and the root beer Liam swallowed in the middle of the night when he was restless and didn’t think Zayn noticed.

He always does, though he never asks Liam about it.  He never asks why Liam only sleeps half of the night or why sometimes he sneaks out to sit in the dark of the living room with the telly playing infomercials and the world silent, quiet, stilled.

Liam rests a hand on Zayn’s cheek, his face still warm and rumpled with sleep, and Zayn sucks in his bottom lip to hide the concern reaching up through his throat.

“You look like shit in the morning,” Liam teases, a thumb running the definition of Zayn’s cheek.  “But I still want you to fuck me.”

Zayn chokes back an almost too feminine sound at the back of his throat and he wants to punch Liam the second he jerks back with a laugh and fingers pinching Zayn’s nipples.  He snickers with Liam until that sound is out the door, around the corner, and he settles back against the headboard with philosophy and the words of Mark Twain fixated in the center of his brain.

His first puff of something warm and thick makes him tilt his head back, breathing out a large cloud of blue smoke that hovers while he scratches at the stubble lining his throat.  He kicks at the sheets, the sunlight heating up the room in the most delicious way.  He scrubs a hand down his face, dragging the heel over his eyes, before he takes his next inhale and he lets the cigarette dangle between his lips as he reaches out for one of Liam’s shirts – it’s almost terrifying the way half of his room is Liam’s shirts, pants, jeans, a pair or two of his high tops, even a half-drained bottle of his cologne that Zayn sprays on at least once a week to carry Liam’s scent with him.

Chapped lips go wet with the flick of his tongue and he grins when he slides into Liam’s Thor shirt, the one that fits loosely around his smaller frame.  He fingers at one of his tattoos – the lightning bolt he got a few weeks back with Liam’s fingers curled into his and the needle refusing to drag as sharply as that moment, with Liam whispering affectionately in his ear, did.  He sucks in another long drag of nicotine, waits for it to work its magic and dull his thoughts.

He smiles at the way he can spy Harry stumbling sleepily down the hall with his curls a mess, fingers rubbing at his eyes like a child, and his boxers askew – they’ve made it a rule that Harry _must_ wear bottoms whenever Liam’s over because of an unfortunate incident where Harry plowed through a banana one morning with a half-hard cock and Liam choking on a scalding cup of pomegranate tea.  He wonders if Harry’s sheets are wet with dreams of Niall or Louis this time, not that he asks.  He merely puffs on his cigarette and waits for Louis to slowly trip over his own feet down the hall behind Harry, a lost puppy still sniffing out his home.

He chews on his thumbnail, humming lowly and he blames Eleanor’s sickening obsession with post-modern adult contemporary for the music in his head – _Your love is better than ice cream. Better than anything else that I’ve tried. Your love is better than ice cream; everyone here knows how to cry_.  He shakes his head with a slow laugh, oxygen filtering through the smoke, and there’s a shyness working its way through his senses when he spots Liam leaning in the doorway with a mug giving off steam and a lopsided smirk on his stupid face.

“Mint Medley,” Liam says when he offers up the mug to Zayn, smiling proudly.  “Nicked it from Harry’s collection.”

Zayn bites down on a small chuckle, loving the way the sun plays off the coil of muscles in Liam’s arm as he fluffs a few pillows, settling back down next to Zayn on top of the sheets in nothing but a pair of Hulk boxers.  He licks a smile off Liam’s lips and sips at the tea, the sting weak from the heat but the buzz of something different.

Liam’s fingers ease back into his hair, dull nails scratching at his scalp, and Liam hums right along with Zayn until their voices slide into a solid harmony – _And it’s a long way down_.

“Why construction?  Why not University?” Zayn asks after a few beats of welcomed silence, curling an arm around Liam’s back, putting out his cigarette to finish his tea with his head on Liam’s shoulder.

Liam exhales lowly, his chest sinking in and Zayn can pick out the subtle ticks in his heart like he doesn’t want to answer.

It’s been like this too long – Zayn inquiring, Liam deflecting, questions ignored until they’re kissing and forgetting that they honestly don’t know that much about each other.  Or, Zayn knows nothing of Liam still.

“Me dad’s always worked on things.  In a factory, on buildings.  He’s amazing with his hands,” Liam confesses, his breathing steadying but his voice is dragging.

 _You’re brilliant with yours too_ , Zayn thinks, eyes sliding shut.

“I was five when he started up this little construction business with a few mates of his.  They slowly left the project because work was hard to get back home and the investment wasn’t worth the loss but my dad didn’t give two shits.  He was determined,” Liam adds and Zayn can hear the slow slide of a smile in his words.  “He just wanted it so bad.”

Zayn hums lowly, turning his head a little to nose along Liam’s collar.  “What happened?”

“He got a few jobs that brought in enough money to keep a roof over our heads.  And then there was a project in Birmingham that he and his small crew smashed.  Then something smaller in London, a large-scale thingy in Cheshire that really got his name out there,” Liam admits, settling an arm around Zayn’s shoulder.

He doesn’t fuss when Liam steals his tea for a few sips, lifts his head to push a few kisses against Liam’s warm lips until he can taste the mint.

“I was shit at school.  I mean, I wasn’t horrible but I wasn’t ace either.  Hated Math and science and Lit – “

“I can tell,” Zayn laughs out and he doesn’t feel too pressed when Liam pinches his side or bites the lobe of his ear, flicking his tongue over the hoop earring.

“I never felt good enough at anything in secondary.  I don’t think ‘m dumb – “

“You’re not,” Zayn says quickly and it shocks him how swift the words rush across his lips.  He’s defensive and, yeah, he thinks the world of this _distraction_.  He thinks Liam’s astonishing and smart and, fuck it all, amazing at everything.

Liam bites down on a smile, nodding, his brow creasing and Zayn flips him off because he needs to hide his blush and the way that little look shatters him.

“I was good at sporty things, but not good enough for a scholarship and, me mum, _fuck_ , she wanted me to go to Uni,” Liam says, his voice dropping an octave lower, a breath quieter.  He rubs at his nose and Zayn plays his fingers along the thick hair running from Liam’s navel to below the waistband.

“I watched how my dad struggled to pay for Roo’s first year at Uni and Nicola didn’t want two fucks to do with schooling after her A-Levels but I thought it’d impress me mum, y’know?” Liam sighs, curling his fingers around thick strands of Zayn’s hair.

Zayn twists his mouth sideways and he knows.  He knows the pressure.  He knows the look of genuine joy when his mum found out how well he did on his A-Levels, how he’d be studying at a University close to home because Doniya never finished and, fuck, she just wanted to feel _accomplished_.  She wanted to feel like she did her children well.

He thinks she always did, even if she can’t see it.

“What’d you want to be?”

Liam shrugs, a small lift of his shoulders that’s barely noticeable except it rolls Zayn’s head and he has to snuggle closer just to feel the warmth of Liam’s skin against his own again.

“Fireman,” Liam says, sounding chuffed.  He giggles, lips teasing along Zayn’s temple.  “Honestly, I just wanted to save someone.”

“Clark Kent,” Zayn giggles under a breath, fingers lifting with Liam’s chest, his heartbeat full and strong beneath the tips of Zayn’s digits.

Liam knocks his ankles against Zayn’s, scooting in closer until their thighs touch, the thin material of his sheets keeping their skin apart.

“But I always figured I’d work in a factory back home.  I always saw my life as just the small town guy.  ‘m not special, I guess.”

 _‘You are,’_ waits on Zayn’s tongue but he scrapes his stubble against Liam’s collarbone and lays loud kisses over Liam’s jaw instead.

“Me mummy was crushed that I decided to join up with dad’s business but I think she understood.  I hope she did,” Liam pauses, the wake of a breath never filling his lungs and when Zayn lifts his head to look at him, Liam fuses their lips together for something long and meaningful.

“Can we stop?” Liam asks, his voice cracked and Zayn hasn’t heard him this vulnerable before.  He lets Liam’s lips brush over his, his nose scrunched and eyebrows drawn together like the thoughts are too much.  “I don’t wan’ talk about it right now, yeah?”

Zayn chokes on a breath, drawing back just to nod.  He lets Liam finish his tea and his fingers mold softly to Liam’s cheek for comfort.

He doesn’t know if it works but something settles in Liam’s face until the corners of his mouth curl into a grin and he’s licking the heady taste of mint across Zayn’s tongue, nipping at his jaw.

The world shifts into bright, cascading light that shines off Liam’s honey eyes and they smile at each other for a long time between kisses.  He’s on a tightrope, fearful every touch he lays on Liam’s skin will reignite his thoughts and they don’t talk about everything Zayn’s thinking about.  The sway on the tide of a still rising sun, limbs tangled, and the day stretching into a standing position.

And he hears it over and over in his head – _it’s a long way down to the place where we started_ from – before he realizes the salty taste on Liam’s lips after a while isn’t from the tea but from the tears.

**

It’s the edge of October and everything outside is that nice cold that requires thicker jackets, knit hats, jumpers instead of t-shirts, and Louis finally cuts on the heater despite the fact that he still wears Vans with no socks anytime he goes out.

Harry’s in the middle of a crisis about switching up majors because he hates studying the fall of the Roman Empire and Louis’ edgy every time someone mentions _the Sound of Music_ or that part in a half-assed production of _Rent_ he missed out on because he had the flu that week and, honestly, did he really think he was going to get the part of Rodolfo with the sniffles and his voice thick with mucus?

Zayn’s caught up in studies and memorizing his lecture notes about Emerson instead of leisurely reading through _the Hobbit_ like he wants and he barely sees Liam for two weeks straight because he’s freaked about exams in December even though it’s not yet November.  He answers his phone a little less and, when he stumbles down Rivers, he only catches glimpses of Niall clumsily working with a blow torch.  He doesn’t bother to ask if Liam’s working on dry wall on the inside or if maybe he’s back in Wolverhampton, working out their next job but he catches the little smile and nod of acknowledgement that Andy gives him every time he passes like he’s finally won over Liam’s best mate’s approval.  It catches in his chest, leaving it warm and achy, and he doesn’t know when he started to give a fuck about Liam’s friends liking him but he does.

Not because he’s defined what they are or anything, but maybe he slips up in front of Waliyha at dinner when he says, “He’s awfully cute, that boyfriend of mine,” and he doesn’t live down the smile on Doniya’s lips for days or the way his heart won’t stop stuttering at the idea.

They’re all crowded into the flat with boxes of greasy pizza and Harry’s squeezed between Niall and Louis on the couch, Liam sitting on the arm, with Zayn abandoned in one of the recliners with pepperoni on his tongue and oil smeared across his fingertips.  He’s thumbing through pages and pages of Spanish poets and trying to understand the meaning behind _the Alchemist_ while lifting his eyes to trace the line of Liam’s jaw when he laughs, the small wrinkles around his eyes, the way his nose scrunches, the stretch of his birthmark along his neck.

Louis’ less on edge whenever Niall’s around now but Zayn chalks that up to the fact that Harry and Niall have only been out together a couple of more times since that first time and it feels more like friendship rather than lovers – though Zayn did catch them kissing, hot and wet, in the hallway once but they were both pissed off that red wine Louis bought and he thinks they work more in _necessity_ rather than _adoration_.  And maybe something’s changed in Louis and Harry’s dynamic like they’re slowly understanding each other again, falling asleep in each other’s bed shirtless with Louis’ fingers buried in Harry’s curls and Harry’s lips to Louis’ neck, snoring away.  He notes the way Harry cuddles up to him with his feet wiggling into Louis’ lap to study and the way Louis always ends up crawling across Harry to steal sips of Zayn’s coffee, bracketing Harry’s hips and looking insanely devious with the way he rolls his hips until Harry’s mouth peeks open for a soft gasp.

They all laugh through traded off matches of Call of Duty, forgoing FIFA because Louis thinks Niall’s shit at it but, truthfully, he kicks Louis and Harry’s arse, only falling victim to Liam’s brilliance with the game.

Niall feeds Harry cheese pizza while Louis licks the grease off his fingers and Liam rubs at Louis’ shoulders when he starts to chat up an upcoming exam on _Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?_ because he can’t get halfway through it without falling asleep.  They trade off stories about ink and Liam’s always fascinated by the meaning – or lack thereof – or Harry’s dozens of tattoos while Niall traces each one gently with his fingers.

“The meaning does not define the purpose,” Harry declares a little sheepishly while Niall paws at _‘17 BLACK’_ until Harry’s skin turns red and Louis smacks his hand away with eyes that say _‘mine, all mine’_ but then they’re smiling feverishly at each other, sharing a beer while another game starts up.

“How very poetic,” Liam grins out, tugging at Louis’ – no, it’s _Harry’s_ – orange beanie until mused fringe peeks out.

“’s not, really,” Louis forces out with a fumbled smile when Niall picks off the bacon from his pizza.  “It’s just his excuse for why he decorates his skin for lack of something better to do.”

Harry flips him off, poking at his cheek before huffing out, “You’re no better, you twat.  A fucking _compass_ Lou, really?”

Zayn grins sharply, eyeing the rush of blush that speckles Louis’ cheeks and, one day, he’ll explain to Harry the meaning and the _‘lights will guide you home’_ that was playing in the tattoo shop when he and Louis sat side by side, flickering blue eyes looking practically damaged as he explained the importance of maps and compasses and large sailing ships to the completely unimpressed guy marking up Louis’ skin.

“Tell me again about Paris,” Niall says with a gleeful smile and Louis barks out a laugh as Harry’s cheek stain a pretty rose and they tangle together to play another round that Harry loses but Zayn thinks it’s because of the distracting kisses Louis keeps wringing across his neck while Niall whispers about Ireland and the promise of lager if Harry ever comes home with him.

He’s more than a little startled when Liam crawls into his lap, sitting heavy and warm against Zayn’s thighs, pulling away a textbook to feed Zayn pizza before balancing it on top of his own knees.

There’s a frown pulling at his lips with wide brown eyes rimmed with indifference as he looks at Zayn.

“This okay?”

 _No_ , Zayn thinks but it’s only because Liam being here, this close, will only drag his mind from his studies and where his focus should’ve been a month ago before he let Liam in so willingly.

“Suppose so,” Zayn says with a shrug and a half smile that glides his lips sideways across his face.

Liam nods slowly, getting a little more comfortable until his chin rests on Zayn’s shoulder and he’s looking at Zayn from the side, still stricken shy and cautious.  He bites down on his lip, shaving years off his face, and Zayn curves his fingers lightly down Liam’s spine until they feel like _normal_ and _domestic_.

Zayn kisses along Liam’s hairline, nose sniffing out summer rain shampoo and lilac conditioner, while flipping a few pages of the book in Liam’s lap.  Harry’s got something on the stereo off in the corner that beats and pulses and feels oddly appropriate, though he doesn’t know how – _Don’t you think that it’s boring how people talk. Making smart with their words again; well, I’m bored_.  It sweeps and hums like Liam’s lips against the corner of his mouth and he ignores the way Louis keeps reminding them that _‘this is not a bedroom and how dare you put your hand_ there _, Zaynie.’_

The grease of the pizza is salty on the rim of Liam’s lips, giggled kisses tasting bright and far from superficial like they always did with Lauren or Hannah.  He drags fingers through Liam’s hair and stretches his neck to lick across Liam’s teeth – _It’s a new art form, showing people how little we care_.

Niall starts up vintage Super Mario Brothers and Louis falls into his lap to laugh over bottles of beer and Harry’s fingers running up his bare ankles, fingering _Rogue_ over and over until Zayn swears some of the ink rubs off.  Liam evens out his breathing like he’s sleeping, nosing Zayn’s throat until it tickles and his head spins.

“I don’t get Blake,” Liam mutters, turning another page after Zayn scans the last.

Zayn grins, remembers Liam slumbered down in his bed with textbooks surrounding them, highlighted passages that Zayn went over and over with Liam until he could recite some of the lines, and he loved the troubled fall of Liam’s lips when they kissed.

He works his fingers against the back of Liam’s neck, chasing kisses over Liam’s cheek until he reaches his ear and whispers, “ _Sweet babe, in thy face. Holy image I can trace; Sweet babe, once like thee. Thy Maker lay, and wept for me_.”

Liam wiggles in his lap, impatient but grinning, and their lips pulse together over definitions and descriptions.  His tongue licks away the discouraged wrinkle in Liam’s brow and Liam’s teeth bite at the subtle hints of bravery he can’t quite grasp.  He gasps on Liam’s lips, working against a smile, and Niall’s laughter in the background is downright naughty.

“Explain Keats to me again,” Liam pleads in a whisper when they pull back, Louis and Niall fighting over a controller in a tangle of chords and pizza stains while Harry muffles a giggle with his hand over his mouth.

Zayn holds in a resigned sighed because, honestly, he should be studying and trying to put together his essay that’s due on Friday but he finds it impossible to struggle against that look of wonder and being lost and puppy, Liam’s a fucking _puppy_ with those wide eyes.

He bites Liam’s bottom lip, kissing away the sting before blindly reaching backward to pull up a thick book with a copy of the latest Green Lantern comic folded inside.

“We’ll start with ‘Hyperion’ and work our way from there,” Zayn suggests, flipping through a few pages.  He blinks up at Liam’s innocent eyes, fucking dopey smile before he’s rolling his own eyes and nudging a finger to the spaces between Liam’s ribs.  “And then you can tell me why you think Sinestro is a complete arse when we both know he was the second greatest Green Lantern to ever exist.”

“Second – “

“Kyle Rayner is first, of course,” Zayn declares and they merely grin at each other rather than arguing over Hal Jordan’s place in it all.

**

“Y’know,” Zayn says with his hair still damp from their shower, fringe falling thick and inky in front of his eyes and droplets of now cool water descending down his spine, “I’ve never been to yours.”

It’s not that they talk about this – the way they’re always at Zayn’s or how pieces of Zayn’s sheets still smell like Liam even when he doesn’t sleep there for days – and Zayn’s incredibly comfortable with the way he can still find articles of Liam’s clothing strewn across the flat or how he likes to sneak a drop of Liam’s shampoo into his own hair just to smell like autumn and peppermint and _Liam_.

Liam curves up a small smile that feels distracted, crinkling just a little less than usual and he hums a nod while leafing through a copy of _Batgirl_ that’s dated and yellowing on some of the pages.  He’s spread out on Zayn’s bed, the sheets rumpled at his feet with nothing but a pair of loose sweats covering that tanned skin.  He tucks his bottom lip behind his teeth, eyebrows lowering and there’s something thoughtful that Zayn can’t quite describe with words blurred into his expression.

“Not much to see.  Complete dump, honestly,” Liam says like an afterthought, chewing at his thumbnail when Zayn looks on him too long.  He shuffles his feet over the sheets, muscular back on display and Zayn loves the little dimples toward the bottom, the curve of his spine, the reflexive shift of muscles under that soft skin that Zayn wants to lick and mark.

Zayn scrubs a towel over his shoulders, across his chest, trying not to narrow his eyes at Liam.

“I’d like to,” Zayn admits, lowering his chin and refocusing his eyes on the hardwood floor that’s displaying a couple of Liam’s shirts, Zayn’s wrinkled up jeans, a pair of Liam’s Converse rolled under the bed.

“I mean, it’s really not – “

“Would you let me?” Zayn wonders, eyes darting upward and the pressure of Liam’s frown distracts him momentarily.  He has too much resolve, though, and he runs nimble fingers over his shaven cheeks, down over his bottom lip.

Liam blinks at him for a beat, tangling his fingers in the bedspread before nodding slowly.

“Anything you want.”

Zayn’s sideways smile draws up something wickedly sweet over Liam’s face and they ignore the way things are so heavy between them now, hanging off the ceiling and making the air dense.

“And your sisters,” Zayn starts, pushing hair out of his eyes, perching himself on a corner of his bed.  His fingers sweep on the underside of Liam’s foot, smirking at the seizing giggle that filters through Liam’s lips.

“They’d love you,” Liam admits, rolling onto his back.  He tucks his hands behind his head, gazing up at the ceiling while the sun plays docile colors off the side of his face, highlighting his profile.  “Nicola’s way into art and Roo, well she loves everyone.  I think she’d even fall in love with Louis.”

“Doubtful,” Zayn snorts, idly drawing shapes across Liam’s bare ankle, running the towel over his collarbone, down over his stomach.  “But I’d like that too.”

Liam exhales quietly, a pinwheel of gold and flaxen rubbing across his forehead and creating shadows under his eyes.  His nose twitches just slightly, eyes flickering over the room before he’s gazing at Zayn, smiling.

“I have a neat collection of comics back at my flat that I think you might fancy,” Liam declares, his voice warm and happy.  “Niall and Andy liked to have a lie-in on my couch all the time and their shit is everywhere.  You’d think they sat dinner with me every night or summat.”

Zayn smirks, sliding his fingers under the leg of Liam’s joggers to run over downy leg hair and the thick muscle of his calf.  He imagines there’s tea stains in Liam’s carpet, half-empty bottles of water strewn across the countertop, stacks of _Batman_ graphic novels in the corner, and probably Liam’s favorite jumper from when he was sixteen laid across the back of a comfortable couch that Zayn could sink into for hours with his head in Liam’s lap and _the Dark Knight_ playing softly in the background.

Liam sneaks pieces of an unfinished chocolate bar from the bedside table while Zayn crawls up the bed, fingers dancing over Liam’s chest just to feel the sparse hair and soft contours of muscle and clean skin.  He eyes a cup of cold coffee next to his glasses, an upside down and opened copy of _the Chronicles of Narnia_ beside them with Liam’s watch resting on its spine.  It’s interesting, the way this room has become _theirs_ over the span of weeks and he can only think of Liam’s smelly socks buried somewhere in the duvet and that snapback they now share somewhere on the floor next to Zayn’s shoulderbag.

“Would you let me keep a toothbrush there?” Zayn asks against Liam’s jaw, all the words muffled as he mouths at the stubble.

“Babe, I’d buy you a new one,” Liam giggles out, fingers losing themselves in Zayn’s damp hair, pulling it up into a floppy quiff.

“Let me borrow one of your button downs to sleep in?”

“I’d want you bare-arse naked,” Liam huffs with a put-on frown, dipping his chin to press a smooth kiss to Zayn’s opened mouth.

He sucks on Liam’s tongue and lets Liam slide him out of those tight briefs he slid into when his skin was still wet and the tiled floor of the bathroom was cold against his toes.  He jerks at the drawstring of Liam’s joggers, smirking across Liam’s mouth when Liam quickly lifts his hips and the offending clothing is kicked off the bed, probably landing in the pile of their shared clothes.

“Do you have a better collection of tea than Harry does?” Zayn wonders with Liam’s teeth scratching his throat and his fingers tightening on Liam’s waist as they roll across the mattress.

“No one has a better collection of tea than Harry Styles,” Liam declares, grinning over Zayn’s Adam’s apple and, _fuck_ , the slick slide of his tongue over a leftover love bite from last night feels incredible.

The lube is messy on his fingers, staining the sheets, sliding thickly down his palm with Liam breathing heavily on his back and Zayn’s knee nudging his legs wider.  He’s inching rough kisses over Liam’s collar, letting Liam’s fingers play along his tattoos while he slides a pillow under Liam’s hips.

“Can I keep a copy of _Eclipse_ there?” Zayn inquires, tongue against Liam’s lips and he tastes like sugar and dark chocolate and something homely.

“No,” Liam says quickly, sighing happily when Zayn works a finger between his cheeks, pressing lightly against his hole.  “You know how I feel about Meyers.”

Zayn snorts and nods because he does.  They’ve fallen into this spell where Liam teaches Zayn as much as he can about football and the Justice League while Zayn engrosses Liam in books that he might enjoy with a lower word count but beautiful imagery.

“Still a fanboy for Rowling, eh?” Zayn teases, edging the tip of his index finger in until the muscles don’t clench as tightly, pushing all the way up to the knuckle.

Liam tenses just a little, shaking his head.  “I just hate the films, that’s all.”

Zayn laughs at that, full and loud, sliding in a second finger to match the first and Liam’s fucking _writhing_ beneath him, cock thick and full against his belly like he’s missed the nights Zayn wasn’t doing this to him.

He bends low, his body curling around itself to lick at Liam’s prick, wetting it with his tongue and scooping up thick drops of precome that are salty and bitter.  He likes the gloss his mouth leaves behind, the way Liam pleads silently for Zayn to keep going but he’s too focused on fucking Liam with his fingers, trying to find that – yeah, _there it is_.

Liam tangles his fingers in the sheets, curling his free hand around his cock and he’s stroking it deliberately slow, mocking Zayn with the way he’s rolling down onto Zayn’s fingers.

“Naughty boy,” Zayn whispers, lips playing over Liam’s neck, sucking a bright red mark just above his collarbone.  “Let me hear you.”

Liam stifles a groan, back arching.  He’s looser but not quite there and Zayn thinks he can, just twist of perfected fingers, have Liam impatient and begging.

“Zayn,” Liam gasps, his voice tight and chest expanding.  His eyes are haloed versions of themselves, teeth biting at already swollen lips and he looks _wrecked_.  He’s twisting his hips, thumbing the head of his cock with thick drops of precome blurting out.

Zayn chews on his bottom lip, nodding.  His cock is curved up at his belly and his knees shift Liam’s legs just a bit wider, his thumb stroking the skin just beneath Liam’s balls.

“Can you come like this?”

“Y’know I can,” Liam huffs, narrowing his eyes and doing his best to give Zayn an incredulous look but Zayn’s fingers push up against his prostate until he’s panting.

“Do it,” Zayn challenges, scissoring his fingers before adding a third finger that has Liam fucking keening.

He noses along Liam’s jaw, sniffs in the sweet smell of Liam’s cologne, the body wash still vibrant and strong against his skin.  Thin drops of sweat slick Liam’s forehead and his hair is soft against his head.  His fingers look shiny and wet and he’s folding the foreskin back until all Zayn can see is the pink head between tightly curled fingers.

Liam muffles a moan against Zayn’s lips, promises left behind by Zayn’s tongue until Liam’s a complete mess for his fingers.  He’s squeezing his legs around Zayn’s hips and pushing down on Zayn’s fingers until come spurts over his stomach, paints his tan skin a glossy ivory shade.

Zayn quickly fumbles for the condom that’s tucked beneath one of the pillows because they’re not really decided on whether to go with or without them half the time and nervous fingers – _is he sixteen now?_ – slide the latex on while Liam lies pliant and broken with his head tipped back.  There’s a lazy smile on his lips when Zayn pushes in, forgoing formalities to slide all the way to the hilt, and everything aches roughly against his bones when Liam groans loudly and fucking pushes down on his cock.

“Do you know how you look?” Zayn says, swiping a tongue over Liam’s bottom lip, tangling their fingers together with Liam’s come sticking to Zayn’s knuckles.

Liam murmurs something and looks away for a moment.  “Probably quite boring.  ‘s what all of my girlfriends have told me.”

Zayn shoots him an incredulous look and he can’t imagine anyone thinking anything less of Liam.  He doesn’t want to think of the words, bitter and resentful, that have probably scarred this dopey boy who smiles like rainbows chase the sun over every city across the earth.  The one with the soft, soft brown eyes and hands that press against Zayn’s chest until he can feel the rhythm his heart creates.

"You don't get it, do you?  Never will.  You really are amazing and," Zayn catches the way their breaths synchronize right before he says, "I can't stop the way 'm feeling about you.  Like, _constantly_."

It's the kind of confession that's followed by an _‘I love you’_ or preceded by a _‘dearly beloved, we are gathered here today’_ but they don't work in tangible, neon lettering like that.

Liam whines instead, reaching out for Zayn’s shoulders just to hold on and Zayn thrusts into him mercilessly.  He lets his cock ache against Liam’s prostate and they’re nothing but sweaty bodies, that shower long forgotten, and tangled fingers through it all.  He’s ruined – _Feel like I was walking on a tightrope. Those days are gone, those days are gone_ – and completely captivated by the curl of Liam’s mouth and the rough grunts falling past his lips.

The bed rocks and Zayn’s hot all over when Liam comes again, untouched.  His face is wrinkled with a smile, satisfied, and Zayn pounds into him until Liam’s just mumbled whispers and a mewling sound that throbs like he could go for another _three_ rounds without losing his breath.  It beats against Zayn’s brain like thundering music – _Sometimes, I wish I didn’t miss you at all. Those days are gone._

“ _Leeyum_ ,” he gasps when his body tenses and Liam’s already pulling him in, wrapping thick arms around Zayn’s shoulder as he comes, cock pulsing deep in Liam.  He collapses on Liam’s chest and steadies his breathing to the rhythm of Liam’s throbbing heart, smiles into the rough hair scattered across Liam’s chest.

An hour later, they’re chasing laughter and long sips of crème-soaked and sugar-filled coffee – the way Liam likes it, he notes – with sticky kisses that brighten Liam’s eyes and leave Zayn hungry for a little more.  They’ve showered, again, and Liam keeps drawing thick fingers through his damp hair, making it curl and lose all of the shape Zayn barely gave effort into fixing while watching Liam dry himself off in the mirror of the bathroom.

“I know it’s wrong,” Liam whispers, pressing his forehead to Zayn’s temple with slow fingers playing piano-like melodies across Zayn’s spine, “but sometimes I think ‘m not good enough, y’know.  Like I can’t ever get it right and I’m mucking this life up.”

Zayn makes a little protest at the back of his throat but Liam kisses off that scowl on his face and he feels the rush of tongue numbing his thoughts.

“Let me finish,” Liam laughs out, scrubbing his knuckles in that gap between Zayn’s shoulder blades and Zayn bites down on the same words he’s been holding in for half-past the hour that feel so affectionate it’s sickening.

“Go on,” Zayn sighs out, refusing to hide his smirk from Liam.

Liam chuckles, his thumb resting on Zayn’s temple while his fingers press gingerly against his scalp.  “But ever since I’ve known you, I feel _different_.  ‘m not quite sure what it is but it’s nice.  I feel like I am Batman or something.”

 _I’m your Tony Stark_ , he thinks in pulsing patterns, folding the words up in the corners of his mouth.

“I feel very much alive and that’s the problem,” Liam admits, his voice stuttering low.  “Why haven’t I felt that before?”

Zayn curls restless fingers around Liam’s wrist, draws his hand down until he can smooth chapped lips across Liam’s knuckles.  The room is suddenly cold and he wishes that stupid heater would kick in because even Liam’s warm body doesn’t feel enough.

“I know you don’t like to put titles or definitions on things such as this,” Liam says, accent thick and dragging as he focuses the pressure of his palm on the small of Zayn’s back until Zayn’s crotch pushes roughly against Liam’s hip.  “But, when I ring up my sisters, I tell them about this boy that I think the world of.  This boy who’s brilliant and smart and fascinating.  The kind of lad that I hope calls me his boyfriend because I do whenever I chat up Niall or listen to Ruth remind me how much men suck.”

Zayn reaches blindly for a cigarette because, fuck, _he can’t_.  His fingers itch, his lips fight against a frown and he just isn’t willing to crack right now, okay?

“I do,” Liam adds, softer now, “I honestly do.”

Zayn nods, wants to say the same or quote endless lines from Whitman that sound significant and earnest.  He slips a cigarette between his lips instead and pretends the ache in his chest when Liam rolls away, plowing his face into one of the pillows with a small grunt, doesn’t mean it hurts Zayn as much as it does Liam.

He presses a kiss to the knot at the bottom of Liam’s neck instead, lighting the cigarette and thumbing open another textbook that fill his mind with _words, words, words_ instead of the way he wants to curl up to Liam and have a quick kip before he has to dash off to class.

**

It’s mid-November and the air outside is a stiff cold now, the kind that leaves you layering on shirt after shirt with scarves and dorky hats – like the ones Harry slips on for kicks but Louis tosses aside because he has some sort of affinity for “proper fashion, you twit.”  And the ground is frosty, the grass stiff and crunching beneath their shoes when they cross the lawn on campus towards the library or for cup after cup of something deliciously hot at that dingy coffeehouse near one of the lecture halls.  The sky is always darker, a thick gray and the moon hangs low just to light up the icy streets a tinted blue shade.

There’s boxes and cartons of Chinese takeaway layering the living area’s floor with chopsticks and those veggie egg rolls he loves best in this kind of weather.  Harry brings home bottles of citrus and watermelon-flavored vodka and Louis half-fills plastic red cups with orange juice just to kill some of the buzz and lessen the headache that’ll follow them in the morning like a low hanging cloud.

He lets himself sink into this feeling – being surrounded by his mates, hollowed out thoughts waiting on the banks of his mind – for one night because he doesn’t feel like reviewing the contrasts in Russian Literature or revising that damn paper on Virgil that’s due on Monday.  He just wants bits of orange chicken, spicy beef, steamed rice, sticky vegetables covered in teriyaki, and the burn of alcohol on the tip of his tongue.  Just Louis’ loud laughter, Harry’s offbeat smile, and Liam’s fingers sliding beneath the hem of his shirt for an hour or three.

They’re piled on the couch, all tangled limbs, crisscrossed arms, toes digging into ribs, thick afghans Louis’ mum bought last winter thrown over their bodies while they pass around the bottles and feed each other like every piece of this life they’re existed was normal.  The textbooks are pushed beneath the couch and the lights are cut down low, Louis refusing to cut the heater on until Harry whines for twenty minutes straight about needing more than Louis to stay warm and, suddenly, Zayn sees through Louis’ little ploy to get closer to Harry in all of this.

It’s his turn to pick the film because Harry made them suffer through _the King’s Speech_ for one of his classes last time and Louis’ been banned from selecting what they watch after he made them suffer through _Notting Hill_ three nights in a row during exam week last term.  He slips in _At World’s End_ to coincide with his newest piece of ink – _‘a pirate’s life for me’_ – and he catches the flickering grin that slips over Liam’s lips when he settles down next to him, hip to hip, with Liam’s thick fingers edging up under his Bob Marley t-shirt like he absolutely gets it.  Zayn tries to bury his smile behind his knuckles when Liam’s fingers round his ribs and press into every curve of dark ink there, tracing out the letters and whispering things like _‘Davy Jones is a completely underappreciated hero’_ and _‘I’d collect a million dead souls for the taste of your lips.’_

Liam’s curious tonight between bites of broccoli – Zayn frowns at the green stems because he hates them but Liam was one of those kids who ate all of his vegetables and asked to be excused before leaving the dining table – and tickled kisses against the corner of Zayn’s mouth.  His kisses are salty like too much soy sauce and Zayn uses his thumb to wipe away the grease from the chicken that clings to Liam’s upper lip.

“Why this one?” Liam asks while his thumb traces along the stereo and the robot decorated in headphones that’s inked to the inside of Zayn’s forearm.

The room’s dark enough that the shadows carve out Liam’s cheeks, the curve of his lips when he smiles quietly, the brightness of his eyes that remind Zayn of autumn leaves and milk chocolate candy bars.  Liam’s finger traces every little stitch of ink in the chord of the headphones, the shape of the speakers and Zayn’s humming gratefully like just the warmth of Liam’s touch calms him in this little huddle they’re in.

“I love music,” Zayn starts, eyebrows drawn together and Liam sighs with a smile.

“Of course.”

Zayn rolls his eyes with his lips drawing up into a grin.  “’m gonna go to Japan, one day.  ‘m gonna explore the cities, learn the culture, and spend a week just walking the streets.  And I’m coming back with one of those neat robots, you know the real high-tech ones?”

Liam nods with a circling glow to his eyes like the idea excites him.  Licking that smile off his full lips excites Zayn, his cock twitching beneath the thick duvet covering them.

“I’m gonna get one of those,” Zayn says, trying to clench down on the cheeriness but it’s impossible with the way Liam’s fingers are digging into his forearm or the way a mouth presses over his, soft and raw.

“And a picture of Godzilla,” he adds with a half-bitten smile that Liam groans at, fisting his fingers into Zayn’s shirt and resting his head against Zayn’s shoulder.

“And this one,” Liam wonders, poking at the prism stained to the inside of his bicep.

Zayn grins, teeth nicking against his bottom lip as he glances at Harry.

Louis’ licking duck sauce from Harry’s long fingers, a soft and wide smile pressed to Harry’s mouth as he looks down at Louis spread out in his lap, feet hanging off the end of the couch.  They’re sharing little glances, flickered grins that remain neon bright in the darkness.  They whisper at each other, Harry pushing back Louis’ fringe while Louis pinches his dimple-worn cheek and they’re living as if the world is tipping off its own axis, perfectly fine with it all.

“Pink Floyd,” Zayn offers as an explanation and he catches the way Liam’s fuzzy eyebrows draw together like he’s confused.

He doesn’t say much else, thoughts back to April when it was him, Harry, ten beers between the two of them and fitting themselves into leather chairs the next day to bleed their skin with ink and a solidarity handshake.  Just a fleeting memory of falling in love with Harry Styles and his optimistic take on this world, something Zayn might not ever get but he can’t help but being enamored with that side of Harry.

“And you’re gonna finish your sleeve soon?”

Zayn hums, dragging nimble fingers through Liam’s thick hair, pressing his nose to the hairline.  He wants to tell Liam how he plans to fill in the empty spaces with colors and this one Green Lantern tattoo he’s been mapping out for a year now and something for his mum and _you, Liam, something about you_.  He bites at the tip of his tongue instead, nodding with Liam puckering his lips to the hollow of Zayn’s neck.  He wants a needle against his arm, the ink smearing against dry skin, and Liam’s fingers curled with his to soak up the pain.

Louis clears his throat loudly, lifting his head some, and he’s nearly knocking the vodka from Harry’s hand as he grins mischievously at them.

“Might I say that was a quite masterful fuck you two had last night,” Louis says with a sneer and Liam’s mouth is falling open, Zayn nudging Louis roughly with his knee until he’s jostled and nearly falling out of Harry’s lap.  He recovers quickly, still grinning with narrowed blue eyes.  “Brilliant performance Malik,” he adds, punching at Zayn’s shoulder, “Even I thought about having a wank to it.”

Zayn’s rolls his eyes, Liam’s cheeks a sharp shade of red even in the dark of the room and Zayn’s dragging lazy fingers against his scalp to settle the way Liam’s curling in on himself.

“I _did_ ,” Harry announces with conviction and little room for shame.

Louis gapes at him, wide blue eyes like northern stars, and Zayn’s groaning with annoyance, head falling back and thumping on the end of the couch.

Harry shrugs, waving off Louis’ glare or the way Liam’s burying his face in the crook of Zayn’s neck.

“What?  It’s like having a free subscription to porn with these two,” Harry says defensively and Louis’ barking out a laugh while Zayn politely flips both of them off, tracing the shell of Liam’s ear until his head lifts and he’s a little less dizzy with embarrassment.

They cuddle around each other for the second half of the film, Zayn quoting half of Jack Sparrow’s dialogue with a practiced accent and a curl to his smile.  He loves the crinkle to Liam’s eyes, the one that wrinkles up the edges when he laughs at every little word Zayn whispers into his ear – _“Why should I sail with any of you? Four of you have tried to kill me in the past... one of you succeeded.”_   He can’t help the way he’s always loved this film even if his mates thought it was shit and maybe he’s sort of wanted a love like Elizabeth Swan and Will Turner’s.  Maybe the thought sticks to his mind – _And I wish that our lives were just endless. ‘Cause it’s all too short, and I’m leaving soon_ – for a little too long before he’s remembering to breathe again, in and out.

Liam’s folds their fingers together above the afghan, the tips running calloused skin that is so, so soft against Zayn’s knuckles – _I want to hold on to all the people I’ve lost_ – and Zayn realizes he might’ve wanted something like this.  Something domestic.

He catches Louis’ eyes, bluish-silver in the dark, watching their hands, the way Liam’s fingers stroke the outline of the swallow on the back of Zayn’s hand or the way Zayn’s fingers tap out the pulse of his heart over Liam’s knuckles – _You are, you are the only thing that makes me feel like I can live forever, forever with you, my love._ They search over the way Liam’s free hand traces feathery patterns over Zayn’s shoulder and jaw and maybe he hates how smug Louis looks or the careful warning in those haunting eyes that say, _‘Caution: you’re falling in…’_

Zayn hitches on a quick breath, ignoring the concerned look Liam offers him to focus on the telly again.  And maybe he doesn’t squeeze Liam’s hand as tightly anymore but he cuddles just a little closer just to remind himself that Liam is nearby.

**

Everything is always so warm when Liam stays over.  They don’t always fall asleep together but, somehow, the spare moments between kisses and dozing off, their bodies make up the small distance in an unconscious way that keeps Zayn interested and curious.  He always ends up tangling a leg between Liam’s, wiggling fingers into Liam’s hair while they trade off being the _‘big spoon’_ most nights but then there’s times where they’re both on their backs and their fingers are linked from thumb all the way down to pinkies over the duvet.  He wakes in the middle of the night, yawning into Liam’s neck sometimes or, on the most beautiful occasions, Liam wakes up for a wee with an absent hand beneath the waistband of Zayn’s briefs and their foreheads pressed together, reserving oxygen for later while clinging to each other like this is their lifeline, their way home.

It’s nearly three this time, the room quiet with their heavy breaths and the moon beating against his window, dull ivory shining off their skin like flakes of the spectrum personified.  Liam doesn’t have an arm curled around his waist and he wishes he could say his dry lips were neatly pressed to Liam’s neck but he’s on his back and Liam’s shuffled too far away in the night for him to be drenched in that thick body heat.  The duvet is kicked down to their waists and something cold is dripping through the room when Liam jerks awake with a shout.

Zayn’s eyes blink wide quickly, barely adjusting to the darkness with Liam shaking to the side of him, a thick layer of sweat coating his skin.  He’s wide-eyed, bottom lip trembling, with a fist in the sheets and the other one in his hair.  He’s gasping for air, Zayn groaning before rolling toward him, pushing up on his elbows while scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Babe?”

Liam startles at the sound, still sucking in deep breaths of cold oxygen.  His tongue flicks over his lips and his shoulders are rolled tense before he’s settling his elbows on his drawn up knees, curling into himself like he’s in a foreign place.

“Leeyum,” Zayn whines, doing his best to rest a hand to the center of Liam’s back but it slides down with the sweat, thudding against the mattress that’s warm from Liam’s body.

“Are we being robbed?  What the fuck?  I will _murder_ whomever it is with a large blunt object, do you hear me?”

Zayn sighs at the muffled sound of Louis’ voice somewhere on the other side of the door, loud and rattled.

“With _what_?  My erection, Lou?  Come on.  Bed.”

“It’s large and blunt, yeah?”

“Lou.”

“What?  We nearly had a case of first degree manslaughter on my throat the other night when you – “

“ _Lou_ ,” Harry squeals with a broken laugh, one’s that chased down the hall by Louis’.

“I’m just saying.  That thing has a mind of its own and – “

“Come back to bed, Lou, you little – “

“Don’t you even because you know how much you whined when I – “

“Louis Tomlinson, shut the fuck up.”

“Rude.”

“Love you,” Harry pleads, sounding completely sleepy with a dragging voice – well, one that’s a bit more sluggish than his usual voice – and it’s deep, echoing in his chest.

“Words, Harry Styles.  It’s all just words.”

Zayn bites down on a grin, shaking his head before he looks up through his lashes at the completely wrecked expression caging Liam’s face.  His shoulders are still drawn up and tense, his spine bowed, and there’s little hitches in his breathing like he still hasn’t recovered.

 _He looks helpless_ , Zayn thinks, and broken and all the words Zayn never bothered defining when he was younger because he didn’t want to know what they really meant.  But that’s Liam, rubbing at his eyes to catch the wake of tears and Zayn’s still for a moment.  He’s holding in a breath and when his fingers finally latch onto the skin on the inside of Liam’s bicep, he doesn’t get the look he wants.

It’s hollow and Liam’s brow is creased a little too heavily.  His bottom lip is protruding and, fuck, Zayn crawls up that little distance to press their foreheads together until Liam breathes, fuck, _just breathe_.

“Do you wan’ talk about it?” Zayn asks when they’re just staring at each other, Zayn’s eyes cautious while Liam’s are round and blank.

“No.”

Zayn flinches at the response, drawing in anger because that’s what he is for a moment.  Angry that Liam keeps these secrets, under his skin, in the corners that are unexplored.  He’s bitter and why does he keep falling for this boy who’s nothing but distracting and selfless and Zayn bites the inside of his mouth to hold all of this in.

He pulls back from Liam, fingers still curled around the nape of Liam’s neck, and he thinks he hears just down the hall something that reminds him of youth and his mum’s old vinyl records and McCartney with a pinch of Lennon that goes like – _When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me. Speaking words of wisdom: let it be_.  Liam looks like he’s trying to grasp the concept of breathing regularly and Zayn, fuck, he pulls in a little closer just so Liam’s eyes have something to focus on.

“Tell me,” Zayn requests, no, he _pleads_.  He begs.

Liam swallows, lips still parted for uneven breaths.

“’m okay,” Liam tells him, eyes flickering between Zayn’s and his mouth, his nose, the tilt of Zayn’s lips.  “I promise.”

Zayn nods, disguises the doubt he feels burning in the pit of his stomach before pulling completely back.  He’s trying not to be irritated or anything resembling annoyed and he fluffs his pillow gently, conceding to roll away for just a few more hours of sleep when Liam’s fingers curl around his wrist, his unoccupied hand working fingers into Zayn’s fucked out hair.

“Stay,” Liam’s voice soft and still bleeding _‘help me’_ as he blinks at Zayn.  “I would like it if you… I wan’ a cuddle.”

Zayn’s lips slips sideways unintentionally, a nod for reassurance before he’s pulling Liam down with him.  He’s fitting the bedspread over their chests, Liam’s arms instinctively circling Zayn’s smaller frame – _And in my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me. Speaking words of wisdom: let it be_ – while Zayn maneuvers an arm around Liam’s wide shoulders.

They mold together like that, with Liam’s head on Zayn’s chest and Zayn’s lips against Liam’s hairline.  He listens to Liam choke on a breath, a sob almost following, and he can’t help the way he immediately tightens his arm around Liam like _protection_ and _‘be brave.’_   He’s reciting _Ode to a Nightingale_ , because it’s the first Keats poem he memorized in secondary school while kids made fun of his glasses and dodgy haircuts, right against the shell of Liam’s ear, quiet and softer, until Liam’s breathing evens out a little more.  He feels the unsteady pulse of Liam’s heart against his skin and bites down roughly on his bottom lip until his words are silenced and Liam’s snoring gently into his collarbone.

He waits in the dark – _And when the brokenhearted people living in the world agree. There will be an answer, let it be_ – for a moment or two, training his eyes on Liam’s mouth and closed eyes and the softness in his cheeks before he exhales hard.  It’s a shaky breath and he’s fucking trembling with Liam in his arms.  He’s pulling in sharp bursts of air and everything hurts.  Everything aches and he hates it.

He hates that Liam has crept this far into his skin.

He hates that he feels like he can’t protect someone he doesn’t know but loves so much.

Fuck, it’s right there along his bones and he needs Liam gone.  He needs this to stop long enough for him to remember he was never intended to become attached to Liam Payne.

The words of Dickinson and Lewis and every other author he’s studied never prepared him for this and he thinks he could write pages about how love is supposed to rapture you, not completely crush your spirit with every single choked on breath.

He presses his nose to Liam’s forehead and forces his eyes shut, taking two breaths in for every forced one out – _Whisper words of wisdom, let it be_.

It’s takes him another two hours, and counting the beats of Liam’s heart until it follows a steady rhythm, before he falls back asleep, with the sun already stroking the skyline and his throat dry.

**

“You know, I’m truly starting to think that you get a boner for tragedy and heartbreak and epic John Keats poems and all of its idiosyncrasies, for fuck’s sake, whatever that actually means.”

Louis’ practically yelling at him from the doorway of the rooftop entrance with Harry’s wooly beanie pulled down over his mused brown hair, the fringe peeking out, a vintage Spider-Man t-shirt hidden underneath Zayn’s leather jacket and a half-opened copy of _the Notebook_ in one hand because Louis loves to get completely wasted on romances like that.  He’s got narrowed eyes that shine like crystals and a curve to his mouth that’s lethal but heartfelt and Zayn waves him off quickly for a long drag of a cigarette and the tight swell of a November breeze.

He’s perched on the edge of the roof with his legs hanging off and the city chasing the day beneath him.  He lets his feet kick back against the baseline bricks, chest expanding with a slow haul of nicotine and he drags his fingers gently over the scruff lining his chin and jaw.  Everything looks tiny and meaningless and just the way he likes when his head is too full, too crowded.

It’s one of those lazy Sundays where the sun doesn’t sit too high and the clouds look a dull silver, threatening rain that won’t come but a backdraft that’s sharp against bare skin and already pinks cheeks.  He chews the corner of his mouth when Louis lets out one of those racketing sighs that puffs out his chest and Louis’ tapping an impatient foot against the small pebbles that line the rooftop.  There’s forgotten pieces of lawn furniture and a small table off to one side with crushed beer cans, candy wrappers, the dead ends of joints marking a trail toward the door and those dirty metal stairs that lead to the flats below.

“What are you on about?” Zayn asks, teeth skating over chapped skin, fingers reaching up to push through pulled up hair that’s weakly standing with half-applied product.  He twitches his lips sideways with a grin when Louis huffs and he’s waiting on the lecture that he hasn’t been met with in days.

The blood pulses in the veins of his wrist, the smoke heating up his skin just enough that he doesn’t need a heavy coat or thick layers of clothing to brave this cold.  He’s comfortable in a long-sleeve Henley that’s far too thin and white, dark jeans and high tops with a new empty cardboard cup next to his thigh, the remnants of coffee still staining the inside brown.

He pulls at the sleeves of his shirt to keep himself warm, still gnawing at his lip as Louis leans into the doorjamb like he’s thinking of what to say.  Maybe he’ll reprimand Zayn for skipping classes Friday in favor of sleeping in, watching countless reruns of _Shameless_ with Harry tucked into his side and open textbooks that they don’t touch surrounding them, a quiet _‘fuck you’_ to education and society.  Or maybe he’ll trouble Zayn about completely mucking up his date with Niall that night by draining half a pack of beer in two hours and drunkenly ringing up Doniya to listen to his ramblings about life and all of its fucking fine print.

Or maybe he’ll just watch Zayn until he confesses that, yeah, he hasn’t answered any of Liam’s phone calls in two days.  And he’s avoided texting too, for the sake of continuance of course.  He’s burned through a pack and a half of cigarettes in eighteen hours and, fuck, he’s not really sleeping at all.  He hates that he realizes the definition of _sleep_ now requires that silly boy with the dopey smile, soft eyes, and arms that pulled Zayn in close when he was restless between the sheets.

“Don’t give me that look Malik,” Louis says warningly, clicking his tongue against his teeth.  “I have half a mind – “

Zayn snorts, puffing out small breaths of smoke while Louis flips him off.

“’m not putting up with your shit.  Styles might but I won’t,” Louis declares, folding his arms across his chest and all Zayn can see is pieces of colorful ink that’s scrambled over his wrist and forearms when the sleeves of that leather jacket scrunch up.

Zayn sighs, letting the smoke sit in his chest until it’s hot, too hot.

“It’s fine,” Zayn lies and he’s always been shit at that, well, at least when it comes to Louis.  Harry’s far too gullible, a default that Zayn’s sure no one ever really noticed when Harry was growing up.

He sniffs, lips curling around the end of his cigarette, and he’s already anticipating the next one.

“You’re living in a material world, Zayn, and – “

 _I’m a material girl_ , Zayn laughs to himself, the corners of his mouth rounding and he misses half of what Louis says.

“I’ve never been fond of anyone like I am with you, you self-righteous prick, and this is _not_ okay.  Do you hear me?  It’s utter bullshit,” Louis hisses, his nose wrinkling when Zayn takes another meditative inhale, blowing out hazy blue smoke from his nose.

“Love you too Lou,” Zayn says under a breath, focusing on the passing cars below rather than that steely look in Louis’ eyes.

“I’ve got exams to study for and Harry’s promised me dinner at that nice hibachi place in the heart of the city,” Louis declares and Zayn smirks because Louis hates stir-fry but settles for all the things he despises if it’ll draw up some sort of smile over Harry’s cherry chapstick-stained lips.  “And I just don’t get how ‘m supposed to write a discussion on _King Lear_ because, _fuck you Shakespeare_ , you don’t make sense.”

Zayn tips his head back with the kind of grin that he can only associate with Louis Tomlinson and all of his little quirks.

Louis schools his frown, kicking at a few of the pebbles with scuffed up Tom’s before adding, “So you’re not allowed to be a prick and brooding and all of that shit.  You have to pull it together because Harry’s a wreck over the social behavior of Korean cultures and Liam’s on the way up so if this is goodbye, the least you can do is give the bloke a proper send-off ‘cause he deserves it.  Good lad, that Payno is.”

Zayn freezes, the last of his cigarette slipping from between his index and middle finger to decline slowly toward the ground below.  His last breath holds tight in his chest, his heart racing in that very uncomfortable way he thinks you would relate to a heart attack and Louis’ just giving him a pleading, almost sympathetic look before he’s spinning on his heels, stomping away into the shadows of the building.

He tastes dry air and the last of his coffee – the hints of crème and sugar still there because Liam sort of has him addicted to the taste – on the edge of his tongue and, suddenly, Louis is replaced by a sheepish, shy Liam who edges across the rooftop like he’s scared to come too close.  He’s weak with anticipation and music flooding his mind – _And with my eyes closed, I’m leaving it all behind. Well, I’ll run away if you call my name. And I’ll keep running if you come my way_ – just before his lungs give out at the dazed look in coffee brown eyes.

Zayn lights up another cigarette and scoots over just enough to invite Liam without speaking.  Something curls around the corners of Liam’s mouth, the smallest of smiles that Zayn returns before Liam’s glancing off the edge of the roof, shaking at the height.

“Aren’t you scared?” Liam asks before settling down next to Zayn on the edge, thighs pressed together, hands close but not enough.

Zayn shrugs, taking the first drag like it’s his first breath after a long slumber.  “Never liked heights but, like this is my favorite view of the city.”

He’s grinning at the brake lights and the tiny dots that represent people and the way the sky is hazy but still breathtaking.  He takes in another haul of his fag, tiptoeing his fingers over the cement before his pinky scratches at Liam’s hand and they sit in silence like it’ll solve everything.

“You can see loads up here,” Liam says with a muted grin, eyes squinting to look over the taller buildings, the grand scale of architecture and _manmade versus nature_ is overwhelming, something that took Zayn’s breath away that first night he sat up here with Louis to his left, Harry to his right, a bottle of gin and leftover pizza shared between them.

Zayn smirks, points out his favorite buildings, the small park he scoured for hours as a little bloke, the stretch of grass and sharp points that represents the campus, that small sections of streets he always walks down for coffee and the small comic book shop he bought his first copy of _Batman: Hush_ in.  His trainers knock against Liam’s Converse and, somewhere, they inch closer until Zayn’s fingers glaze over Liam’s knuckles, fitting together like they always have.

“What about you?” Zayn asks through an exhale of smoke that he refuses to direct toward Liam.  His thumb pushes at all of the little pressure points on Liam’s hand – _And with my eyes closed, I see the door open wide_ – and he watches Liam chew on the corner of his lip.

“ _Me_?” It comes out choked, strained.

Zayn chuckles, nodding.  “Any place like this for you back home?  In Wolverhampton?”

Liam is vulnerable, cheeks a frosted pink, fingers tugging nervously at that thick, black Adidas hoodie like he can bury himself in it.  Zayn reaches his free hand out to cup the back of Liam’s neck and it’s just a little reminder that it’s just them.  Liam’s free to run away if he wants but, right there on the edge of his heart, Zayn hopes he doesn’t.

“There’s this field a few roads down from my parent’s house,” Liam says, slow and quiet.  He ducks his head, his brow furrowed as he mouths around heavy words.  “I go there and practice footie for hours.  Sometimes I kip under this big tree with these long, long branches and the leaves are always the greenest I’ve ever seen just before winter.  I sometimes sit in the middle of all the grass and nothingness and I just daydream.  For hours, I just sit.”

Zayn nods, brushing his tongue over his lips.  He holds off a few drags, studying Liam’s face, the way his cheeks hollow with every breath like he’s silently gasping to escape this armor caging him in.

“What else?” Zayn asks, tiptoeing the edge and running blindly with scissors in his hands.

Liam exhales heavily, brown eyes a little unfocused but Zayn’s fingers play along those sharp hairs on the back of his neck, his thumb tracing the shell of Liam’s ear.  He’s trying to press words like _courage_ and _be still my beating heart_ into Liam’s skin until Liam’s teeth don’t bite so harshly at his lip.

“Car accident,” Liam stutters out, head hung low with eyes on the way their hands fit together rather than Zayn’s.  There’s something weak about his breathing now, a twitch to his lips like he’s holding in a frown or something worse.  A shuddering exhale is followed by, “I was seventeen.  Well into my A-levels, I was.  She was so proud because I was planning on going to Uni and,” another rush of air, fingers tightening around Zayn’s – _I’ll keep running if you call my name_.

Zayn leans into him, gently brushing his scruff along Liam’s cheek, training his ears to pick up the whimper, the flutter of Liam’s heart, the way he doesn’t really breathe as much as he inhales and exhales air in quick rhythm.

“Just some stupid pickup game I was playing with my mates.  Andy was there, Maz too.  Some of the other parents and, fuck, what was I thinking?  I wasn’t good enough to make the Premier League but she really wanted to see me play,” Liam says, a bitter laugh trailing the uneven sound of his voice.

“She – “

Liam huffs out another laugh, tilting his head back and his eyes are shiny and wet.  He’s watching the sky like he can pick out the shapes of the clouds, the way the blues turn silver and smoky gray.

“She was hit by some fucking kid who nicked his dad’s truck,” Liam whispers, his throat convulsing around every word.  “They couldn’t save her, though they tried.  Fuck, all the fire trucks and red lights and that’s all I wanted in life.  To be them.  To save someone’s life.”

He hitches on a breath and Zayn’s tugging at that too thick hoodie until he can curl an arm around Liam’s stiff shoulders, mouth buried into the crook of Liam’s neck.

“And they couldn’t save her,” Liam adds, his smile washed out by the thick tears that slice at his cheeks and leave his eyelashes stuck together.

Zayn tightens his arm around Liam, fingers squeezing reflexively around Liam’s until Liam has a steadiness to his breathing, the outline of a frown tugging at his lips.  Zayn noses the tears off his cheeks, lips finding Liam’s for just a second to taste salt and pain and a cold shiver.

Liam pulls back, swallowing.  He shrugs it off, his thumb outlining the swallow on Zayn’s hand.  He rubs at his nose, his face flushed and wrinkled.

“I started working for me dad because I didn’t think I was good enough, y’know?  Not smart enough and he was a wreck afterwards.  My sisters, well, they made peace with it after a while.  But him?” Liam pauses, teeth working against already swollen skin again.  He drops his head once more and Zayn’s fingers catch his chin, lifting it, closing the distance until Liam’s all warm skin, haziness, beautiful even this close.

“He likes scotch.  Sometimes bourbon,” Liam confesses, his chest caving in with a long exhale.  “Almost anything will do, y’know?  Some days he doesn’t even get out of the bed but to grab another bottle and, poor Ruth, she stuck around.  Not Nicola.  But Roo was always like that about him.”

Zayn blinks at him, nestling his bottom lip between white teeth to hide his own frown.

Another short breath, eyes pushing out smaller tears.  “He goes on a bender some nights with a bunch of his mates because, well, it helps I guess but then he’s shit the next day.  Hasn’t worked in over a year.

“Roo’s got him in rehab now because she thinks she can fix him but I dunno,” Liam huffs out, dragging the side of his shoe against Zayn’s, knocking their knees together.

“That’s why you’re always at meetings?  And why you’re kind of in charge?”

Liam laughs lowly, nodding.  “Some of his business partners have been friends with him and me mum for decades.  When they heard, they couldn’t abandon him.  So they let me take the lead.”

Zayn nods, sketching his fingers over the thick scruff on Liam’s chin.  The bristles tickle and bite at his skin but he numbs himself to it.  He sinks into every little piece of Liam until Liam finally scoots in close enough that his face is pressed to Zayn’s neck and each of his next words bleed into Zayn’s skin.

“And I don’t mind, really.  I mean, for fuck’s sake, it’s me dad, right?  I can do it.”

Zayn wants to tell him he can.  He wants to stop the rushing pound of Liam’s heart and the way his fingers push at the nape of Zayn’s neck like he’s trying to be strong for Zayn now but Zayn doesn’t need that.  He crushes his lips to Liam’s temple and plays rocking patterns on Liam’s skin when his hand slips under the hem of his hoodie.  He feels the wake of Liam’s first real breath, the slow one that shakes them both and he thinks Liam’s stronger than anyone he’s ever known – _That I would be good even if I did nothing_.

When they pull apart, not completely because Zayn keeps his palm to the small of Liam’s neck and Liam’s fingers push against the thin cotton of Henley and their feet rub against each other with Zayn’s knee to Liam’s, Zayn smiles at him like he’s giving Liam permission to say more if he wants.  And Liam’s face, still stained with dried tears but a quiet glow that feels more like Liam than Zayn can remember.

“I don’ like going home much, to Wolverhampton of course, ‘cause the house still smells like her somehow and Ruth sometimes puts on her apron to make us dinner.  And they won’t take down the pictures because it doesn’t hurt like that for them,” Liam confesses, tracing the frame of Zayn’s ribs through his shirt – _that I would be loved even when I numb myself. That I would be good even when I am overwhelmed_ – and something beats hollow in his expression for a moment.

Zayn’s startled by the lift of Liam’s lips, the glint in his eyes like all of this helps.  He bites at his lip until Liam thumbs it free, rubbing gently over it with a _‘don’t do that, let me’_ and Zayn feels everything slide away from tenseness to familiarity that he loves.

It’s sparse silence again – _that I would be good even if I was clingy_ – and he rocks into Liam for a kiss that’s all temptation and apologies and he never wanted to know so much more as he does with Liam.  He waits, lips urgent against Liam’s until Liam says it all: the way his mum read to him at night or the way he can’t watch _Toy Story 2_ without crawling beneath the duvets to have a cry because she let him watch it every Christmas morning until he was sixteen.  The songs she would sing while cooking, her favorite book – _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , something Zayn grins mischievously at because _Atticus Finch you are not Liam_ – and the way she always picked out his father’s clothes for posh dinners with friends just because he was shit at dressing himself, something he imagines Liam picked up on over the years.

“I know you don’t want someone like me around all of the time,” Liam says later, the air chillier but they’re cuddled so close together on that ledge that Zayn barely feels the breeze fit in between the small spaces where their bodies don’t touch.

He clears his throat, tipping his chin downward for an honest look that peels away the layers Liam’s hiding behind.

“Never said that,” Zayn mutters even though he’s certain some of his looks have, even when he thought Liam wasn’t watching.

Liam nods, rubbing at his own chin with thick fingers.  “But it’s true.”

“No,” Zayn says flatly and he hasn’t felt this compelled to argue in years.

Liam blinks at him, teeth flicking over his lip, fingers burying themselves in Zayn’s hair until the tips drag slowly over his scalp.  He drags up a smile like he’s foolishly falling for Zayn without knowing the repercussions and Zayn feels the same.  Fuck, he feels that same exact way.

“I think you’re too brilliant for me and, some days, I think _fuck_ , why did I get lucky?  Cheesy, right?”

“’s not,” Zayn says with a burnt off laugh, Liam rolling kisses against his jaw, irrelevantly attached to the goofy smile and suddenly awe-stricken brown eyes.  “S’good.  I promise.”

Liam’s grin is remarkable and worth a dozen days locked behind the door of his spare room to recapture that look that says Liam’s shocked and over the moon and unopposed on the matter of love and Zayn Malik.

“I’ll admit, like I’m not quite mad about the title and the,” Zayn hitches on a breath because Liam swallows his smile and he’s looking ready to break before he adds, “definition but I quite fancy the idea, y’know.  It’s like Frost and the deeper meaning between the lines.  Like I’ve thought massively about the idea and it sounds quite nice.”

Liam’s brow furrows, confusion setting in and it draws up a heavy laugh from Zayn’s chest, leaning in with precision guiding him as he fits their lips together.  And the kiss feels perfect, something he rarely uses to describe moments like this but, then again, he doesn’t think he’s ever had a moment quite like this one with fingers stitched together and a tongue licking so patiently at his lips until they part.

He wants to dream in Technicolor and blurred edges and the words of Keats inked to his skin, Liam’s fingers careful against his hips.  He lets Liam kiss away doubt and he’s breathing into Liam’s mouth _‘would you hate the idea of being my boyfriend?  My_ something more _, if you would?_ ’ and Liam’s fucking beaming when he pulls back, soft like an angel but bright like the city during Christmas.

Zayn thinks in rhythmic heartbeats with fingers playing along his chin and he’s so damn attached to the way Liam whispers, “Boyfriend.  Zayn, you hate titles but you want a boyfriend.  You want _me_.  Your boyfriend.”

It’s that dopey smile and the way they fit their lips together again for a few chaste kisses before they’re crawling off the ledge and still holding hands as they walk towards the door.  The wind kicks at their backs and Liam pushes him to the door, metal hard and cold against his spine to lick the back of Zayn’s throat and fit his large hand over Zayn’s crotch with promises of freeing Zayn’s cock once they’re inside.  And Zayn hurts with the smile Liam offers him, pupils blown already as Zayn nips at his jaw.

They work against each other, mouths open to catch each other’s last breath, and he thinks he could write a literary dissertation about Liam’s tongue, his hands, the way he tears Zayn apart with just touches rather than well-practiced words like those foolish loves of his past.

And he can’t really say any of them deserve to be attached to a word like _love_ but, off the spin of something dizzy in his mind, he thinks one day he’ll carve that word into his definition of Liam with no regrets.

**

Their feet crunch against the thick flakes of snow painting the road white down Rivers Street.  In the distance, there’s drunken carolers tripping over half of the lines of ‘Little Drummer Boy’ with their _pa-rum-pum-pum’s_ slurred and it’s all just white noise compared to Louis’ laughter and the way Niall smiles up at all the lamp posts decorated in garland that’s all green, red, and gold.  Louis’ hand is tucked in Harry’s and Niall’s squeezed fingers into the back pocket of Harry’s slim trousers while Zayn keeps adjusting the strap of his heavy shoulderbag across his chest – exams are over but he still totes around Tolstoy, Russian Lit books borrowed from the library, and that thick book with all the words highlighted with varied excerpts from famous poets – while the snow pinwheels around them.

Harry tugs down his beanie – a woven black one Niall bought him – with Louis sipping at a cup of hot cocoa and his nose pink.  He leans into Louis for a moment while they walk, whispers of hot soup, mugs of cider, Louis’ mum’s cooking, before Liam fits an arm around his waist and drags him away.  He laughs into the crook of Liam’s neck, mouth full of Liam’s thick scarf, and Baker’s Mill is just an afterthought before they’re down Pepper’s Street and around the corner.

“Home,” Niall sighs out, the highest points of his cheeks a glowing red and he keeps fiddling with his gloves, kicking at flurries like a midfielder during a football match.  “I can’t wait.  Dad’s promised me lager and loads of roast and – “

“Humus,” Louis cackles, poking at Niall’s ribs until Niall kicks at his shin in heavy boots.

“Wanker,” Niall sighs but he’s pressing a wet kiss to Louis cheek, throwing an arm around his neck until they walk in tandem, three bodies forming one.

“How did this even happen?” Liam whispers into his ear and Zayn fumbles with a grin, teeth nipping at Liam’s jaw.

“We have an agreement,” Harry declares, his voice dragging and deep.

“Niall gets me on Tuesdays,” Louis notes, reaching up to slide his lips along the corner of Harry’s mouth.  “He’s got Harry on Thursdays and we get each other off on the weekends.”

“Who gets Mondays?” Zayn asks because he gives all fucks right now with Liam’s bare fingers, cold and aching, pressing down his wrist, beneath the sleeve of his jumper.

“Threesome,” Niall laughs out and his eyes are wide and carnal.  “Fucking amazing things these two can do with their mouths and – “

“Fuck off,” Liam blurts out and he’s shoving Niall into Louis, Harry catching both of them just to keep a steady pace down Linden Corners, passing that Indian restaurant Zayn remembers for the food and the service and the way Liam looked that first night together – shy and ready and dying for a chance.

“We’ve got nothing on you two,” Niall teases, his smile lifting higher when Liam’s cheeks burn warmer.

“Zayn must suck cock like a professional,” Louis whistles, fingers caught in Niall’s fluffy blonde hair.

“And the noises Liam makes,” Harry sighs fondly and Zayn kicks at him just because he can.  He doesn’t deny the way he loses himself in Liam’s throat sometimes or the way Liam’s voice goes whiny whenever he twists his fingers in Liam just right, pressing down on something that makes Liam practically boneless.

“Remember that other night when I nutted off on your hand and you stuck those fingers in me so deep to open me up,” Zayn says low and husky against Liam’s ear and something shakes against his chest when he pulls back, spots the look in Liam’s eyes like he’s so gone for Zayn.

He peels the scarf down a little from Liam’s neck, fingering the first two love bites decorating his skin and he thinks about all the other ones over Liam’s collar, down the center of his chest with scratch marks over his back and Zayn muses, for a moment, about the way his legs bracketed Liam’s hips, the way Liam fucked him sleepy the night before with shaky thighs and Zayn’s name heavy on his tongue.  It tastes like splendid release and the itch of something that still feels brand new even though its months old now.

“Want to suck you off before you go home,” Louis says, dark and wavering and Zayn’s face wrinkles at the way Niall gasps, the grin that slicks over Harry’s mouth like he wants to watch.

“And let Styles fuck you, just this once?” Niall wonders, sneaking a hand behind Louis’ back to cup Harry’s arse, a firm hold that has Harry walking on the tips of his toes for a few steps.

Louis looks considering and Zayn laughs at the way Liam groans into his shoulder, their fingers curling around each other while flakes of thick snow land across Liam’s snapback.  The moon, high and shiny, lights up Liam’s eyes and he can see the stars rimmed by pronounced shades of honey and brown.

“We ran out of lube last time – “

Liam nudges his hip to Zayn’s, pressing curling fingers to Zayn’s chest, right under that leather strap to feel the rattle of Zayn’s racing heart – he’s breathing in that last paper about George Eliot and the way there’s always a different interpretation of this feeling across the ages, but each conclusion is the same.

“You and your fucking glow-in-the-dark condoms – “

Zayn bites at his lip, their steps slowing, and they’re falling behind the pack but Zayn doesn’t mind.  He times his movements with Liam’s and he can’t help but offer Liam a fond look like he wants this, the space around them nothing but white noise and flurries and he’s fallen so hard, it aches.

“You love the way my tongue leaves your hole wet and then when Louis starts to finger you – “

Their voices get weaker and weaker but Liam’s smile, fond and unreadable, holds soft against his full lips.  He’s tracing cold fingers over Zayn’s cheek and, words don’t come.  They refuse and rattle in his throat until Liam leans down just a little to peck at his lips, his heart losing its stride just that easily.

“Hey,” Liam says, his voice tinted low and delicate like this is the first time.

Zayn grins and he wants to bury himself in books for years just to find all the proper words that will describe how much he loves that smile that sits lazily on Liam’s lips.  And he feels like he’s wasted years on those unworthy of the way his heart flutters when Liam noses his jaw, drags unfocused teeth over the skin on Zayn’s neck.

“You’ll never understand,” Zayn whispers and he doesn’t regret the words but his cheeks flush pink when Liam reels his head back with his brow knit and confusion resting in his eyes.

Zayn shrugs it off, tracing fingers down Liam’s flannel shirt – he misses the way it was tied around his hips that first day with unfinished buildings behind him and the perseverance Liam lived in feels completely lost on him – before he tilts his head back so Liam can etch his smile with gentle fingers.

“He’d like that, I know.  Like, the way he chokes on my cock,” Niall sighs happily, playing with all of the buttons of Harry’s dress shirt beneath his trench coat and Harry’s gaping with Louis pressed up behind him.

“Are you quite finished?” Louis hisses and his eyes read _‘this was mine first and I only share because I can’_ but Zayn steals his eyes away when Liam’s fingers curl around his hips and he’s tugged forward, chest to chest.

“I know its last minute,” Liam starts, the cold brush of his nose against Zayn’s rippling a shiver up Zayn’s spine, “but ‘m going home in a few days and, I know this isn’t really your holiday and you’d much rather read C.S. Lewis – “

 _Rowling and muggles_ , Zayn thinks, grinning at the way Liam’s lips look full, pink, and chapped but he knows they’re soft and taste like the sweetest slide of chocolate.

“I want you to come home with me,” Liam says shyly, shoulders hunched and Zayn thinks about that night in the pub with the lights so low and Liam defeated before he even started.  It drags a smile over his lips and he kisses Liam just for the thrill of it.

Their foreheads are pressed together and Zayn’s rocking into Liam, thinking about the way they live in comic books and teaching each other new words and Zayn hasn’t thought a thing about next term because he can’t afford to be distracted from Liam, not even for a second now.

“Just for a few days in Wolverhampton,” Liam adds when they’ve managed to stop pressing their lips together like a little reassurance that this little idea Liam has isn’t incredibly stupid or too much and Zayn’s just gotten used to the term _‘boyfriend’_ – Liam uses it frequently and attached to sentences that don’t even call for it but Zayn just smiles with his cheeks burning an edgy pink until he can whisper it over and over to Doniya over beers.

“You can stay in my old room and Ruth is already planning out a big dinner with the neighbors if you say yes and I promise Nicola isn’t that awful, she’s just not very trusting,” Liam stammers out, thumbs circling Zayn’s hipbones until they burn, leave behind bruises.  “And I think I have some old Power Rangers sheets you can trade off for the silly ones still on my bed and, fuck, it’s too much, yeah?”

Zayn laughs, bright and completely not himself, dragging dull nails over the nape of Liam’s neck and he doesn’t hesitate when he says, “I love you.”

Louis gasps, suddenly closer, and Niall’s fucking _smirking_ like he won a bet with Andy.  Harry’s burying a smile in the back of Louis’ neck and Liam’s just staring at him.  He’s alternating between blinking and slow breaths and Zayn thinks a fag and a tall cup of coffee would be appropriate right now.  Maybe a marathon of Burton’s _Batman_ collection and each one of the _Superman_ films, including _Supergirl_ , or a lie-in with all the lights off and the moon setting his room a brilliant blue – _I’m just gonna follow your heart. I’m just as scared as you are._

Liam swallows and, after two sharp breaths, he whispers, “I’ve wanted to say that to you since Keats and that time you freaked out over me mucking up Kipling.”

There’s something quite aweing about that dopey smile and the way Liam says, “I love you and that’s it,” until they’re kissing and everything breaks around them like it should’ve a long, long time ago.

He fists his fingers into Liam’s hoodie, presses his other hand underneath to trace over clenched stomach muscles – _Love is a drum, hear it beating for you_ – and the flimsy material of a Batman shirt and this is so much like _love_ , he knows no clearer definition.  He lets Liam’s lips leave his swollen, catching the words off Liam’s tongue, lashes beating against Liam’s cheek while the cold dies off for that warm, warm feeling pooled in his stomach.  His breathing hitches, Liam fitting a leg between Zayn’s and he hates the way he smiles against Liam’s lips when the others cheer them on like this is what they wanted too.

They’re trading off kisses as they make their way around the city, smiles too warm and familiar for Zayn to recover from and he doesn’t quite remember Twain’s words but he knows he can, affectionately, relate them to Liam without even trying – _And as the world hits my eye. And as the tide reaches high, I’m all yours_.  Their lips are swollen and chapped and a bit cold as they kiss outside the pub and it takes them a whole ten minutes, slick tongues never receding, and Doniya threatening to dump pitchers of beer over their head for too much PDA before they stumble inside and Zayn fucking swoons at the way Liam kisses him hard and silly in the archway for all of the patrons to see.

“All mine,” Liam whispers against Zayn’s lips and Zayn’s distracted by the softness, the resolve of Liam’s voice.

“Love you,” Zayn says back, certain this time and he grins at the blush that sticks to Liam’s cheeks.

“You do and I’m in love with you too,” Liam giggles, sounding so honest, and it’s prettier than the words scribbled across years of fine literature.

Harry’s wedged between Niall and O’ Donohue, Louis sat in his lap with a grand smile and something so honestly real in Harry’s eyes, it’s as if he’s more alive than Zayn’s ever remembered.  Niall’s already halfway through a mug of beer when he shrugs off his coat, tickling fingers through Harry’s thick curls while Andy waves at them from the bar, doing his best to charm Doniya – and Zayn knows it’ll never work.  It’s the kind of scene Zayn loves with dead smoke still clinging to the air, Cher dropping off a tray of colorful shots that Louis’ probably bought off, the yellowish lights dull and hazy, and it feels so much like home that Zayn can’t help the way his teeth bite at his lips and a smile tangles thickly over his mouth.

“Fantastic job with this one, mate,” Andy says, meeting Zayn’s eyes as he throws an arm around Liam’s shoulders, pulling him close but never too far from Zayn.  “Quite like the lad.”

“Me too,” Liam says under his breath, pushed up cheeks stained with pink blush.

Andy reaches out to smack a heavy hand at Zayn’s arm and there’s something rosy high on his own cheeks, ducking his head and it’s the first time Andy’s said it.  It’s the first time he feels like he’s accepted by every little facet in Liam’s life.  He’s thinking about Shakespeare and that copy of _the Tempest_ on the floor of Liam’s flat, next to the stack of _Batman_ comics they leaf through on Sundays.  He breathes in nights sprawled across Liam’s soft, velvety couch with his head on Liam’s chest and their fingers tangled around the remote, switching between _the Amazing Spider-Man_ and _Wanted_ with sticky smiles and soft breaths.  It leaves him warm and dizzy, the music roaring against the walls as Andy swallows down a shot, sucking the juice off a lime, and stumbling toward their favorite table to tease Louis.

Their fingers tangle together, unintentional but so habitual, and Zayn takes a quick glance out the frosted windows to watch the lights dance over the glittery snow-covered roads.  He absently traces up the cuff of Liam’s sleeve to run fingers over the feather inked on the inside of his arm, catching the pulse of Liam’s heart while memorizing every strip of the holidays outside.

There’s a definable truth in his eyes when he looks back at soft, round brown eyes meeting his: he loves this city, but he loves Liam so much more.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this wasn't awful (or too much). I also hope you kept reading past the beginning and all the smut. I haven't enjoyed writing a fic this much since _Like Peter Pan (Or Superman)_ and _Tea, Coffee, or Captain America?_ and I hope it shows. If anything, I hope I didn't bore you to tears with this (or anger any of the top!Liam fans). I need more prompts that inspire me like this one did!
> 
> I'm on Tumblr:[Jesse xx](http://jmcats.tumblr.com) and I hope to hear from you soon (you know, if you don't completely hate this fic) -- ;)


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